Retaliation
by The Envoy of Oyashiro-sama
Summary: The Enclave was finally and irrevocably shattered following their defeat at Andrew's Air Force Base. However, the spirit of the Old World lives on in those who survive. Under Lukas Sigurdsson, the remnants wage a guerilla war against the victorious BoS.
1. Foreshadowing

**Some quick notes before the story gets going. Firstly, a disclaimer. **_**Fallout 3**_** and all content and materials related to **_**Fallout **_**are the sole property of Bethesda Softworks and its parent company, ZeniMax. I own only the physical game itself, and the gameplay produced by usage thereof (as videogames are transformative works). Secondly, this is primarily a way of getting myself back into writing, so forgive the occasional mistake. Finally, below is the premise I created for this story, and intended to use as the summary (though it is too long to fit):**

_The Enclave was finally and irrevocably shattered following their defeat at Andrew's Air Force Base. However, the spirit of the Old World lives on within those who survived. Under the command of Lieutenant Lukas Sigurdsson, those remnants wage a brutal guerrilla war against the victorious Brotherhood of Steel, with the intention of making the Brotherhood pay dearly for every victory, and pay even more dearly for any of their mistakes._

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><p><em>Foreshadowing<em>

Riley McAllister slid into cover as bullets and bolts of plasma ripped by. A New Eagle, the one who had been in charge of destroying the metro entrance, had died just nearby with a serious burn, with the plasma scorching the skin on his neck and upper torso. It was the shock that had killed him, as unfortunately he didn't have any power armor to protect him. Riley dug through the dead man's duffel bag and found the detonator, a small green remote with a single switch. Placed around the mouth of the metro entrance were bundles of C4, and when detonated, the Brotherhood of Steel paladins who were getting bogged down by the New Eagle fighters would have no escape, and then the Eagles would be able to unleash their most powerful weaponry for power armored foes: electromagnetic pulse grenades.

Three other Eagles were taking cover from the plasma-rifle wielding Brotherhood soldiers, their conventional firearms not leaving a scratch on the Brotherhood's T-51b power armor. They would pop up for not even ten seconds and let off a burst of gunfire to keep the Brotherhood paladins pinned. Riley pressed the button, and the C4 detonated. The terminal collapsed quickly, sealing off any escape the Brotherhood could have made. At least three of the ten or so Paladins in the patrol were crushed underneath the rubble.

"Lob those grenades!" Riley shouted. Before the Enclave was defeated, he was higher-ranking than many of his fellow soldiers, at the rank of Staff Sergeant. That seniority transferred over when he found the New Eagles. One of the other fighters unshouldered his pack and dropped it on the ground, tossing a single electromagnetic pulse grenade to each of the Eagles. Each Eagle pulled the pin, and took turns tossing their grenades. Within moments, the rest of the paladins were immobilized, their power armor disabled and now incapable of supporting their weight or responding to their movements.

The Eagles, now safe, gradually moved up and away from their cover, keeping their rifles trained on the disabled paladins. The paladins' cussing and struggling with their useless fourth-ton armor could be heard clearly in the tense silence as the four Eagles approached, guns leveled.

"Johann, keep an eye out," McAllister said, removing the helmet of the nearest paladin.

"God damn you!" the man screamed, his face contorted in rage.

"Up yours," McAllister said, giving the man a swift kick to the jaw, shattering it. "Alright," he said, addressing the other two Eagles, "I want these guys lined up and ready for execution in no more than five minutes. Then we're going to take their armor, load it up onto the truck, and head back to the base." The other two nodded. McAllister headed over to the ancient, pre-war truck. It was a heavily-build machine designed by Ford for the military, and bore the star of the U.S. Army. On the bed of the truck was a handheld radio (underneath a ball-and-socket mounted M2 Browning machinegun). The thing was heavy, at about 25 pounds, but it used channels that the Brotherhood had no access to under normal circumstances. He turned the radio to Eagle Two's designated frequency and clicked the button on the far side twice, keeping the receiver and earpiece at his head.

"Eagle Two to Nest, respond." McAllister said while holding down the transmitter button. He released the button and waited for a response.

"Nest to Eagle Two, sitrep?" a gravelly, deep voice came back over the radio. Lukas Sigurdsson, leader of New Eagle, resided in a bunker identified only as "Nest". He and a few select adjutants guided the progress of New Eagle in its fight against the Brotherhood, who had, not three years beforehand, smashed the Enclave's chain of command.

Lukas kept the earpiece held to his head, jotting down what McAllister reported to him. He handed the note to Skylar Ericsson, who began transmitting the events to the other units, and returned to the holographic tactical display, which showed every New Eagle unit in the area, as well as every known Brotherhood patrol and unit. Lukas quickly went through the archive of known Brotherhood units and deleted the one that Eagle Two had destroyed. Their marker disappeared from the screen. At the center of the map was the Pentagon, or as its new inhabitants called it, the Citadel. It was infested with the Brotherhood, and their mastermind lived there. Another color denoted Brotherhood "outcasts", equally as dangerous as the Brotherhood proper, but with a far more cynical attitude towards the wasteland. They spent all their time gathering technology in the wasteland and doing little else, but their headquarters was the prize. If the Eagles could clear out the Outcasts there, they'd have the perfect place to stage an assault on the Citadel – the huge amount of pre-war tech in the place was a bonus as well.

He zoomed in on the city of Megaton. There was a large, blue cone, which indicated a major threat – in that case, it was the Lone Wanderer: John Fredrickson. John Fredrickson and his wife, Sarah Lyons. It was his fault that the Enclave was defeated, and Sarah was the daughter of Elder Lyons. With the two in the area, the Eagles would be incapable of operating with any semblance of calm, as John would, almost certainly, get involved. Killing the two was a major goal of the Eagles, but it could not be done directly. It would require a sleeper cell. Luckily for Lukas, he had a makeshift sleeper agent: one Ashley Rodriguez, a civilian formerly living in Site R but driven off when that beast of a machine, Liberty Prime, destroyed the facility. She had taken shelter in Megaton, and her personal grudge against John made her the best candidate for the mission.

"Sergeant Ericsson," Lukas called to Skylar Ericsson, gesturing. Skylar was perhaps the only non-ghoul pre-war soldiers in the world, saved only by the advent of prototype cryogenic technologies. Skylar came to Lukas' side.

"Yes, sir?" he asked.

"I want you to run a package to a caravan trader. His name's 'Wolfgang," but he goes by 'Crazy' Wolfgang. Canterbury is a little more than ten miles east," Lukas pointed to the map, "so you should be there and back in about a day. If Wolfgang isn't there, just wait around. You're in no rush, here, so take your time." Lukas moved to a row of lockers, with Skylar following. Lukas dug through one of them and brought out a makeshift dirty bomb, a micronuke with a digital timer and fuse. He also found a box and a sheet of paper. He quickly jotted down instructions for Ashley, and placed it within the box. After sealing the box with heavy-duty duct tape, he wrote Ashley's name on it. "Make sure not to drop it. The safety mechanisms were removed to allow the digital fuse to work."

Skylar took the bomb. Lukas went back to his tactical map as Skylar moved the bomb outside. He took a quick look at the position of his soldiers. There were about twenty units operating under the New Eagles, separated from one another within a sea of Brotherhood knights and paladins. Perhaps the most important part of Lukas' plan was gathering support for the New Eagles – by starting a massacre. When they see five or six heavily-armed men in T-51b armor – with Brotherhood symbology all over – they will assume them to be Brotherhood. But when they start firing, to try and kill as many people as possible, feelings of fear and hatred will build when thinking of the Brotherhood. The best target was either Megaton or Rivet City. Megaton lacked any major kind of security – with the exception of the Lone Wanderer and his wife. Once Ashley killed them, Eagle Two would go in with their captured Brotherhood tech and slaughter the civilians. It would cause an outrage against the Brotherhood. Then some people would be hired to go in and post up propaganda for the New Eagles. A few of the civilians may even join the Eagles, but most would definitely see them in a better light than the Brotherhood. Eagle Four, Seven, Fifteen, and Nineteen would continue to run ambush operations against Brotherhood patrols, while Eagle One, Six, Eleven, and Twelve would consolidate, gathering around Fort Independence and waiting to strike. The remaining units would await orders.

Lukas picked up the radio and began transmitting the orders. Then he got to Eagle Two's frequency.

"McAllister, make sure your team is rested up and ready to fight within three days' time." He said, "If everything goes right, you'll be bathing in blood pretty soon."

"Sir, will we be a part of the strike against the Outcasts?" Riley asked.

"Maybe. That comes after a friend makes her move, though." Lukas said. "And try to stay alive. If any of your men are killed, we may end up having our mission compromised. Resistance should be pretty light, however."

"Yes, sir." McAllister said, acknowledging his orders. Lukas turned his radio off and headed to his room. There were only a few other people in his bunker, most of those living within merely being radio operators. They had their own rooms as well. But Lukas' room was pretty barren. A single Enclave-style bunk and a small nightstand – which had a lamp attached to it – were the only things within his proper room. There was also a small compartment underneath his room, which held a lot of things Lukas' had saved for their sentimental value: pictures of his younger sister, a copy of Aldous Huxley's _Brave New World_, and his mother's wedding ring, just to name a few. Lukas laid out on his bed, and closed his eyes, wishing Skylar wouldn't take very long getting back.

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><p><strong>Please leave a review. I like constructive feedback, as it helps me improve.<strong>


	2. Vengeance

**Well this certainly isn't my best work. After three individual rewrites, I finally gave up and settled on what IMO is the best version. Also, In order to prevent confusion, (ie the fact that Megaton has THOUSANDS of citizens rather than dozens) it should be noted that everything in Fallout 3 is scaled-up a LOT in this fic. IMO it's more believable that way.**

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><p><em>Vengeance<em>

"Miss Rodriguez?" a familiar voice broke through Ashley Rodriguez' dream. She opened her eyes, and saw Lucas Simms standing over her, arms crossed. "Crazy Wolfgang stopped by with a package for you. It's over there, near the entrance. And would you please stop sleeping on the catwalks? It's dangerous." The old man walked away as Ashley stood, dusting the dirt from the catwalks off of her old, tattered dress. Crazy Wolfgang had saved her from the flaming wreck of the Vertibird she'd been on after the destruction of Site R; Liberty Prime had shot the non-combat vehicle's right engine off, and the thing crashed about two miles away. She was the only survivor. Wolfgang was thus one of the few non-Enclave personnel she actually trusted.

She picked the box up off of the table Simms had left it. It was damn heavy for its size, weighing at least forty pounds. She dragged it over to a shady area where she wouldn't have to deal with the sun's heat and light, and pulled the lid of the box off. The contents shocked her; it was a micronuke, a pre-war device used to eliminate entire platoons of men. But that wasn't all. Attached to the hull of the bomb was a digital timer, its bright-red interface blinking 00:00:00. Tucked in below the bomb was a note, as well, coming straight from none other than Lukas Sigurdsson, who'd contacted her immediately following the destruction of Site R.

"_Dear Misses Ashley Rodriguez," _he wrote, _"I've sent you this package in order to aid you in exacting your vengeance upon the Lone Wanderer, John Fredrickson, and his wife, Sarah Lyons. I've entrusted this task to you because you have lived in Megaton for some time now, and undoubtedly have more knowledge of its layout than any of our other sleeper agents, and because when last we spoke, you showed a well of loathing for the Brotherhood's secret weapon – and I do not mean their giant robot. Anybody with sense knows that it was the Lone Wanderer who won their battles for them._

"_Moving back on-topic. The bomb I've rigged up for you should have an attached digital timer interface, with both a timer display and a keypad. Be careful not to drop the package, as it may detonate if you do; many of its default safety mechanisms were removed to allow the digital fuse to work properly. When you are ready to enter a time, be aware that the first two digits on the right are seconds, the second set in the middle are minutes, and the last two on the left are hours. Set it so that the Lone Wanderer will not have enough time to react once you've gotten over there and given him the bomb. The explosion will be more than large enough to kill anything within a normal-sized house, and the pressure exerted will likely cause the house to collapse. Hit enter once to lock in a time, and hit the enter button again to start the countdown. Be aware, however, that you will not be able to stop the countdown once it has begun. If everything goes right, the Lone Wanderer and his family will be dead, and the second portion of my plan to gain public support from the outlying communities will be put into action – so once you are done, it may be a smart idea to leave town, as it will become a bloodbath within three days of your move."_

Ashley refolded the note, and placed it back in the box. Was she expected to merely waltz in and give the man the bomb? His wife would _kill_ her, literally, as soon as she walked in the door. No, Ashley needed to think of an alternative plan, one which allowed her to still complete her mission, but without the possibility of getting herself killed. She recalled a small crawlspace just below the Lone Wanderer's house – no, it wasn't even really a house; the entire town was made up of _junk_, and Wolfgang would have a field-day if he could get his hands on all that junk – one which the bomb would be able to fit into easily. But would it still have as much effect? Then there was also a window on the first floor, into one of the closets. But again, the effect would likely be dampened.

Finally, Ashley decided that the best plan was to merely knock on the door and give John himself the bomb. Anything else simply wasn't guaranteed to work, so the best plan was to carry the bomb over personally and hand it to the man. She set the timer to a minute and a half, pressing enter to lock the time into the timer. She pressed the enter button again, and quickly placed the bomb back into the box, closing it up and hauling it up into her arms. She walked along the catwalks, moving towards the Wanderer's house, which was on the far end of town. The others, citizens of Megaton and people merely hunkering down away from the danger of the wastes, stared. Some murmured to themselves as she passed by, undoubtedly disparaging Ashley and the rest of the Enclave, just as they had when she first turned up.

Ashley couldn't understand why'd they'd be so apathetic. After everything she and her family and friends had gone through – those few who survived, anyway – the people of the wasteland still hated them. Ashley'd never done anything wrong. She'd never committed any harmful acts against anybody. And she was rewarded by the death of her immediate family, the destruction of her home, and harbor provided by a bunch of people who'd just as soon kill as look at an Enclave citizen.

She passed by Moira Brown, out in front of her shop sweeping off the catwalk. She saw Ashley, and averted her eyes. Moira was unlike most of the rest. Rather than openly hating Ashley and the rest of the Enclave, she simply looked away and tried to not talk about it. As far as her sympathy went, well, Moira was the only one who'd tend to the burn wounds Ashley'd sustained following her crash in the middle of the wasteland.

After turning a corner, it was just a few hundred more yards before she reached the Wanderer's house. Down one more ramp, and it was a straight shot to the Wanderer's front door. Checking the bomb's timer as discreetly as possible, she was horrified to see the timer already at 50 seconds, and counting. And although she found the bomb to be heavy, she began to trot, awkwardly, towards the Wanderer's house. More than once, she almost fell flat on her belly, with the bomb directly underneath; if the timer didn't count down to zero prematurely, a fall might detonate the bomb either way.

She passed by the public restrooms, a single room lined with toilets, with only a curtain separating mens' and womens' restrooms. Half the toilets on either side were always malfunctioning, so the thing was almost worthless to most people.

_Just a couple more yards_, she thought, Wanderer's house still at least two hundred feet away. Estimating, she figured she had about a half-minute left until the bomb went off, and took her with it.

She knocked, as calmly as possible, on the Wanderer's front door. Checking the bomb, she saw the timer at 30 seconds. It was uncomfortable just standing there, bomb in-hand, waiting on somebody who she hated to open the door. Finally, after what seemed like ages between the soft beeping of the timer and the fear of death or discovery, the Wanderer answered the doors. He was a tall man, gaunt and lanky. How somebody so odd-looking could kill legions of Enclave soldiers was beyond Ashley.

"Uh, yeah?" he said, drearily.

"Hi," Ashley said, trying to put on a smile. "I have a gift for you and your family." The Wanderer took the bomb. He glanced outside, and then nodded.

"Well, thanks."

_What the hell?_ He thought, confused. _This woman is Enclave; there's no good reason for her to just waltz in and hand me a gift. Then again, there's also no reason for the people of Megaton to do the same…_

"Okay, I guess I should go." Ashley said, trying to get away from the bomb's blast radius. She was no longer certain how much time she had to get away.

"Uh. Okay, I guess I'll see you around." The Wanderer said, closing his door. Ashley made her getaway as quickly as possible, sprinting away in case the bomb detonated just behind her. She wasn't about to be a pincushion for shrapnel.

There was a shuddering all along the catwalk. Ashley's foot somehow missed its mark without warning, and she fell flat on her stomach. Debris rained down from above, showering her in smoldering ashes and cinders. That shuddering intensified, heat suddenly hitting Ashley's back in spite of the distance between herself and the epicenter of the blast. The bomb was plainly _much_ more powerful than expected.

Finally, the shaking and rattling up and down the catwalk dissipated. Ashley picked herself up off the ground, dusting off still-smoldering ashes and kicked-up dust. She did an about-face, and looked at her handiwork. There was a massive, gaping hole where the Wanderer's house had been. Practically nothing was left of the structure and much of the surrounding area. The scaffolding supporting the house collapsed during or immediately following the blast, tumbling into the irradiated pool where Megaton's bomb used to be. If there were any remains to be found, they would most certainly have been in the form of charred skeletons amongst the rubble.

_Shit, _Ashley mouthed. If she'd known the blast would have been so powerful, she wouldn't have risked life or discovery of the subversive act. She could have just thrown the bomb into one of the late Wanderer's windows and let physics take care of the rest.

People from all parts of the city were gathering around the wreckage. People were shifting through the ruins, looking for the corpse of their former protector. One person came up with a shattered skull, unidentifiable due to the sheer amount of damage the micronuke had done, between supplying enough heat to melt sand instantaneously and also applying an amount of pressure which might be sufficient to make diamonds from pencil lead. Pretty soon, almost the entire city was gathered around the wreck – at least a thousand people, if not more.

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><p><strong>Not my best, but still, please R&amp;R.<strong>


	3. Paranoia

_Paranoia_

Elder Lyons was terrified. He had been called back from his expedition to link back up with the West Coast elders, and the Paladin who'd been the one to talk to him – Paladin Cortez – was, well, anxious. He refused to tell Lyons why until the Elder had gotten back. Then Lyons began to hear of some explosion in Megaton, which drew his thoughts immediately to his only daughter and his new grandson. Though he was grudging in letting Sarah marry the Wanderer, he still wouldn't want her to be harmed. Lyons leaned up over the Vertibird pilot's shoulder.

"How much longer, Knight Taylor?" he asked. The pilot quickly checked his map. They were still about an hour away, based upon the GPS coordinates.

"Probably between forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on the weather conditions," Taylor said.

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><p>"Sir!" one of the radar operators who resided within Lukas' bunker called out. "Lieutenant Sigurdsson, you may want to see this, sir!" Lukas left his chair in the situation room – the same room which held the all-seeing tactical display – and headed to the radar room.<p>

"Sir, I'm picking up a blip coming from the west, out of Frederick, and it's moving at about a hundred knots," the operator said, pointing to his console.

"Who could it be? Is there an identifier chip aboard that vessel?" Lukas asked. That was how the Enclave avoided friendly fire during air ops. And post-Enclave vertibirds would almost, guaranteedly, have an identifier chip.

"No, sir, and it's a VB-02 Mk II Bravo, top-of-the-line version," the operator said quickly.

"Air Force Two?" There was just one VB-02 Mk IIb in the world, used by the Vice President pre-war, and it had been lost to the Brotherhood following the assault on Andrew's Air Force Base.

"Sir, that's the only ship with that profile," the radar operator said, "It was taken by the Brotherhood when we got run out of Andrew's, and such a vehicle would likely only be used by a high-ranking official – perhaps Elder Lyons himself."

"Where will they land, do you think?" Lukas asked.

"Sir, if I had to guess they would likely land somewhere south of the Pentagon, as there is very little room directly around the facility."

"So, Arlington then," Lukas thought, considering his options. "Hunh, good. Eagle Three should be in the area," Lukas muttered aloud. He patted the radar operator on the back and headed a ways up the hall to the radio hub, where all communications with the outside world took place.

"Connect to Eagle Three directly to one of the receivers, I have an order that needs to go out." The one man operating the radios nodded, shifting through a book of known broadcast towers and their frequency, looking for one which might be able to reach Eagle Three, which had been fighting Talon Company in Arlington.

"Eagle Three connected to ground line two," the radio operator said, handing the telephone to Lukas.

"Eagle Three, this is nest," Lukas said.

"Yes, sir?" The man on the other end asked, a tough young soldier by the name of Gregory Wordsworth. "Arlington is all clear, sir; Talon Company has been wiped out."

Lukas grunted at that. Talon Company were a bunch of apes with access to an old military base – and a nuclear missile silo.

"Well that's good, soldier. But you've got a new directive. A high-ranking Brotherhood official will likely be in your area, ETA one hour." Lukas paused, thinking. "If you can, set up an IED on the road. They'll likely transport the target via vehicle, given the current situation. Set off the explosive once the enemy are near enough, then strike on foot. Keep an eye out for their power armored troops."

"Uh, sir, we're all out of pulse grenades. Going up against power armor would be equivalent to suicide." Gregory pointed out.

"I know, it's a risk," Lukas said, trying to sound confident, "but we've got one shot at this; you're the only unit close to their estimated landing zone, and if we don't take it, we won't know if it's a hit or a miss."

"Yes, sir," Gregory said, somewhat annoyed. It was, however, true that Eagle Three was the only unit in Arlington. Eagle Two was all the way up in Megaton, Eagle Five was on the other side of Fort Independence.

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><p>Elder Lyons disembarked from his Vertibird just a few miles south of the Citadel. That Vertibird, formerly Air Force Two, was too large to use the helipad set up for the other helicopters of the area, so it was necessary to disembark so far away. An armored truck met them at the landing pad.<p>

"Sir," one of the paladins saluted, opening the rear of the truck, where Lyons was to be held.

Paladin Cortez, one of the foremost Brotherhood paladins, awaited inside the vehicle. The other paladin closed the door behind Lyons, and Cortez addressed him.

"Sir, there's a growing problem we need to talk about." He said, quietly. "This organization, the 'New Eagles', they're the Enclave. Under a different guise, and lead by someone else. I can't tell if they're a ZAX or not, but he's been outsmarting us at every turn."

"Yes, I've heard. It's difficult to remove a problem when you can't find its source. That was one of the first things you learn about guerrilla warfare back before the nukes dropped." Lyons acknowledged.

"Well, they've been getting more brazen recently. Entire patrols just drop off the map, and we can never find leads. We've had to occupy Rockville itself to keep the upheaval those people cause from reaching a breaking point, sir, and it's a drain on our resources."

"I still believe we can keep this from boiling over, so to speak."

The vehicle finally lurched into motion, after the paladins and knights outside fiddled with the engine for some time.

"I'm finding that difficult to believe, sir. The Eagles' latest target will likely hit much closer to home for you. We have reason to believe one of their agents detonated a bomb within the Wanderer's residence."

"What?" Lyons yelped, "Are they okay? Is there any word on my daughter?"

"No, sir. It's been difficult getting the people of Megaton to comply, under any circumstances. They're extremely resentful of our refusal to give, or sell, them any more water." Cortez pointed out.

"Dammit all," Lyons said.

"Sir, we have to do something," Cortez spoke after several minutes of silence.

"I know." Lyons said, annoyed.

Several more minutes passed without a word, as the ancient truck plodded along, weighed down by the heavy armoring rigged up to protect whoever was within. Then, from outside, an explosion rang out. Lyons and Cortez were thrown from their seats as the truck flew over the guard rail and into a ditch. Lyons stood, feet on one of the armored walls. Gunfire could be heard from outside.

Gregory Wordsworth wasn't afraid of a few Brotherhood paladins. However, he was shocked at how ineffective his Eagles' fire was against them. Gregory, or Greg, as his team mates called him, lead one of the largest homologous contingents of New Eagles in the Columbia Commonwealth, at seventeen men strong: seven of those men were wasters with a chip on their shoulders when it came to the Brotherhood. He made sure to train all of his soldiers in light infantry tactics, as he had learned as an Enclave scout-marksman in 2274 as he and the rest of the Enclave were bogged down in Alabama. However, conventional weapons left nothing but a scratch in the T-51b power armor the Brotherhood had a penchant for wearing.

"Keep moving, boys!" Greg shouted, popping up for not even two seconds to let off a burst of gunfire from his R91 assault rifle. One of the four Brotherhood paladins traded fire with him, letting loose a volley from his laser Vulcan. The top and front of the rock which served as Greg's cover was scorched from that volley. Another Eagle popped up. He fired a prolonged burst from his own assault rifle, unwisely staying standing for much too long. A burst of plasma struck the man on his left shoulder, burning the exposed skin between each plate of armor. The Eagle dropped his rifle and screamed, spontaneously combusting as he did so.

"Shit! Shit! Get it offa me!" the man screamed, rolling about on the ground. "Help! Please, somebody, help!"

"Johnson, Lewis, cover me!" Greg called out. Johnson, with his ancient, Vietnam-era M60, opened up, his bullets staggering his targeted paladin. As he did so, Greg sprinted towards the wounded man, firing a few rounds from the hip as the paladins were preoccupied with Johnson and Lewis.

A paladin took notice of Greg just as he neared the end of his sprint.

"Runner on the far side!" the paladin cried out, pointing to Greg. He took aim, and fired off several plasma bolts at the man. Greg could hear the screaming of the subsonic plasma bolts as they whipped by, scorching the earth around his feet. Finally, he got to a point where he could slide to safety, the same place where Greg's subordinate had gotten shot.

"Oh, Christ!" the burning man said as Greg turned him onto his back. "Christ, man, I'm hit!"

"No fucking duh." Greg said simplistically, somewhat annoyed at the man's incapability of using the light infantry tactics he'd been taught. It was simple, keep moving, and keep in cover. Never expose yourself for more than a burst of gunfire, and move only with covering fire on your back.

Greg used his hands to put out the fire, and pulled the wounded man's armor away, revealing a charred but sticky mess of melted flesh.

"Oh shit," Greg said, gagging at the stench.

"How bad is it, Greg?" the burned man, Samuel Harris, asked.

"We need evac for you right now, that's how bad it is." Greg said, honestly. They'd parked the truck on a pre-war off ramp, which was at least a mile away. They'd need to send a small contingent, maybe three men, to retrieve it. One of them could man the M2 Browning mounted on the bed of the truck, and provide better effective fire to protect the Eagles.

Johnson screamed. Greg swiveled his head to look, and saw the man, putting a fire out on his exposed forearm.

"Shit." Greg said simply. He brought two stimpacks and a syringe of morphine out of one of his pouches. "This'll help keep you together for a while longer." He said, injecting the stimpacks into the man's right arm. "And this will keep the pain down for a while." Greg injected the painkiller into the same vein he had with the stimpacks.

"Grenade out!" one of the other Eagles cried, pulling the pin on his frag grenade. It would knock down one of the paladins, if he were lucky. But rather than lucky, his cry merely attracted attention to him, and as soon as he stood and had his grenade thrown, a plasma bolt struck him in the face. The man's head exploded, showering the two nearby Eagles in blood and grey matter.

"Francesco, Lewis, Farnham!" Greg called out. "You're going to go get the truck! Johnson, get back on that damn pig and keep firing!"

"Yes sir!" Johnson said, crawling back up to his M60. Francesco gestured to Lewis and Farnham, and the three started a sprint down the highway. One of the Brotherhood paladins turned to face the three, readying his laser Vulcan.

"Johnson, take that sonofabitch with the Vulcan out!" Greg cried. Johnson tried to, opening fire on the man. Bullets deflected and ricocheted away, sparks flying every time they hit metal. But the paladin was undeterred and unaffected. He opened fire on the slowest of the three Eagles Greg had sent to get the truck, Farnham. The first laser struck Farnham just to the left of his spine. As laser after laser incinerated more of his flesh, the man's entrails came flying out the front. The sight was unbelievably gruesome. A long patch of the highway was covered in Farnham's blood, and his entrails were scattered about it. Farnham collapsed, undoubtedly dead or dying, and a large pool of blood seeped out of his abdominal cavity.

"Fucking son of a bitch!" Johnson hollered. "You fucking cowardly _whore_! Get the fuck out of that power armor and we'll all see how fucking tough you are you son of a bitch!" He'd failed to protect Farnham, one of his closest friends, and he was undoubtedly going to feel responsible later.

"Johnson, stow that talk, soldier!" Greg called out. Johnson turned to look at him, incredulously.

"Sir, with all due respect, go fuck yourself!" Johnson screamed, pissed as a fire ant soldier whose nest was just stepped on.

Greg let off a burst of gunfire towards the paladin wielding the plasma rifle. The paladin turned to face Greg, and fired off several bolts of plasma, all of which Greg barely dodged by ducking back down into cover. As he took shelter from the plasma rifle-wielding paladin, he saw Harris, immobile.

"Sam?" Greg said, reaching his hand over and feeling for a pulse under the man's jaw. He felt nothing. "Shit."

Johnson at that point was foolishly trading an extended volley of fire from his M60 with that from the laser Vulcan one of the four paladins was wielding. Incredibly, Greg actually saw the paladin's blood begin to spray from a hole created in his visor.

"Holy shit!" Johnson said, as if he didn't believe it either. "Holy shit, I got one!"

"Good for you, Johnson!" Greg congratulated. "Eagles, advance! Johnson, keep up the good fire!"

The remaining Eagles lurched forwards from their cover, in a dead charge towards the Paladins remaining. Three remained, one wielding a plasma rifle, another with an AER9 laser rifle, and a third with an AER14 prototype. They were outnumbered by the Eagles, four to one, but their armor and weapons… a dead charge was unwise, and unthinkable. But Greg had believed he might be able to leverage the numerical superiority his force enjoyed.

But that changed when Tristan Orville was vaporized next to Greg, followed by Ulrich Francois and Larry Bellevue. Before the Eagles had even reached their targets, half of their force was vaporized, ablaze, or otherwise dead. Greg reached the paladin with the plasma rifle. The man's suit was too clunky and heavy to allow him to adequately defend himself in close combat. Greg let his rifle drop, caught only by the sling, and unsheathed a combat knife. Pushing the man's plasma rifle away, Greg reached for the paladin's neck.

"Help!" the paladin yelped, trying to push Greg away. Unfortunately, a suit of armor which weighs 500 pounds isn't particularly mobile by any standards, and the paladin found himself incapable of keeping Greg away. The leader of the Eagle cell leapt onto his paladin friend's back, and angled the knife just underneath the rearmost part of his helmet. With one thrust, the paladin went down.

Just as he was letting the now-dead paladin hit the ground, the two men who had gone to get the truck arrived. One of them was on the M2 on the truck's bed, opening fire from afar. Kyle Yves leapt upon one of the laser rifle wielding paladins. Before he could latch on, however, the paladin – whose reflexes were surprisingly good given his restraints – elbowed the man in the head, caving in his face. Only Greg, Preston Harlow, Isaac Alexopolis, Johnson, and the two men in the truck remained.

Greg watched Preston get burned by the AER9, a laser bolt striking the man in the sternum.

"Ow, I'm hit!" he cried. Isaac opened fire at the other paladin, who, oddly enough, had no helmet. But the paladin used his AER14 prototype to more effect as the 5.56mm bullets bounced harmlessly away. A single, green bolt of energy hit Isaac on his left arm. The man let out a yelp, and staggered backwards, compulsively squeezing the trigger. Bullets landed erratically all around the helmet-less paladin.

Preston dodged the helmeted paladin's fist, leaping backwards. He barely sidestepped his opponent's laser bolt, bolt searing right edge of his chestplate. Greg saw a rocket scream by, barely missing anybody involved in the melee. The man on the M2 leapt away as the rocket struck the cab of Eagle Three's truck. The vehicle's generator detonated, engulfing the entire thing in radioactive flames. Turning about, Greg was dumbstruck seeing at least five more Brotherhood peons trotting towards Eagle Three and the few paladins left – and likely Elder Lyons, if he was really hiding within the overturned truck.

Preston took a good hit to the chest from his foe. He went flying back, at least over ten feet. Greg leapt upon the back of the distracted paladin, saving his comrade from incineration.

"Fall back!" Greg shouted at Preston and Isaac. "Johnson, get the fuck out of here!" The support gunner seemed glad to oblige, hefting his M60 over his shoulder and jogging towards the wreck of Eagle Three's truck. Greg dug his combat knife into the back of his foe's neck as he had done with the first paladin. The paladin was almost instantaneously dead. Isaac's torso exploded just then, creating a rain of blood and entrails. Preston caught up to Johnson, and the two helped the one Eagle who had survived the destruction of his truck back onto his feet. Greg remained behind, intent on killing or capturing Elder Lyons.

He took cover next to the destroyed truck, preparing himself to face the helmetless paladin. He turned the corner, and saw the man wielding his AER14. With a quick step forwards and a kick, the AER14 went flying overhead. Greg leapt forwards, trying to get as close as possible. He angled his knife overhead, attempting to stab down into the man's neck, perhaps to hit the jugular or carotid. However, this paladin's armor was streamlined, and far more maneuverable than normal T-51b power armor, and the man was able to stop Greg before he could take the killing blow by merely pulling his arm up for a block. The paladin made a grab at Greg's neck. Greg ducked in the nick of time, but his face met the sole of the paladin's boot. The kick was strong enough to send Greg staggering back, broken nose and broken jaw, blood seeping from where the edge of the boot had come into contact with Greg's flesh.

But the Eagle refused to give up. He stood, knife in-hand.

"I commend you for your steadfastness," the paladin said, in disbelief. "But that trait will only serve to get you killed."

"Let's just see about it." Greg said, taking the first step on what he intended to be the death strike. Just before he reached his target, he changed course unexpectedly, just as the paladin tried to kick Greg in the chest. Instead, he kicked the empty air where Greg had been. But the Eagle would get no reprieve, and although off-balance, the paladin managed to swing his arm, and struck Greg in the head, sending him spinning through the air.

He landed flat on his stomach, blood seeping from multiple wounds. The paladin stepped up behind Greg.

"You fight like a beast," he said. "You show compassion for your teammates, risking your life for the first of yours to fall. For all of that, I respect you as a person. But your organization, the Enclave, the Eagles, whatever you call yourself, is fighting for a lost cause. Your people are trying to restore pre-war life, but at what cost? Hundreds of innocents. Even your own civilians were mostly wiped out at Raven Rock."

"Like the Brotherhood is really any better," Greg retorted, "You seek technology no matter the cost. If you have to crush a few innocent settlements here and there to achieve your goals, then so be it. You claim to be trying to 'save the wasters from themselves', but in actuality, the Brotherhood is nothing but a bunch of tech-greedy religious zealots."

"And the Enclave wasn't made up of power-hungry, disillusioned pure-supremacists?"

"That was the _Enclave_." Greg said, "We are the New Eagles. We may represent the Old World, but we've shed the Enclave's means."

"That's what you may say now," the paladin said, unholstering his IMI Desert Eagle, "But in the long scheme of things, you're the same, illegitimate shadow government you've always been."

As the other brotherhood members arrived, slowing down as they realized how far off the remaining New Eagles were, Cortez discharged a single round into the head of his opponent. He opened the back of the truck, helping Lyons out.

"They are gone?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Cortez said, gesturing down the road towards the Citadel.

"Good." Lyons said, still shaking from his close encounter. He and the paladins began walking towards the Citadel at a decently fast pace, leaving the ghastly scene of combat behind. Lyons was not, however, able to quite shake that close call. The Eagles had hit close to home, twice, and they were undoubtedly ready to make another brazen move as they had on that highway.

* * *

><p><strong>If you're wondering about the title of this chapter being "Paranoia", it's because it was originally going to focus entirely on the mental effects of the attack on Lyons, rather than the actual combat itself. I changed it when it became shorter than I wanted and less powerful than I intended. The result is that it's twice as long as the other two chapters.<strong>

**And place R&R.**


	4. Atrocity

**Okay, chapter 4 is finally up! Enjoy.**

* * *

><p><em>Atrocity<em>

"Let go of me, you fat fuck!" Lewis Franklin screamed as Knight Lucas pulled him by the ankles out of his residence.

"If you'd have just come quietly, I wouldn't be having to drag your ass out here!" Lucas shouted back, as Franklin's wife begged and pleaded for the knight to let Franklin go. Cortez watched the ordeal, drawing on the only cigarette he'd had for weeks. He dropped the smoldering butt and stamped it out with the heel of his boot.

"Knight Lucas," he called out, approaching the three people just on the edge of Rockville, "Tie him up to the lashing post."

"You can't do this, you son of a bitch!" Franklin screamed, thrashing about as Lucas continued to drag him through the dust. The three reached the lashing post, a broken telephone pole from pre-war, and Lucas roughly forced Franklin's arms around the post. Using some zipties, he secured the man to the post.

"Hey, Orion!" Lucas shouted towards another Brotherhood knight, who was sipping quietly on a bottle of purified water. "Why not come over here and keep an eye on these two? I need a fuckin' drink."

"No need," Cortez said, waving Lucas off. "I'll ask them a couple questions, and if they're compliant, they may get off with their limbs still attached."

Lucas shrugged, and followed the other Knights away, towards Rockville's saloon. That facility was the only place that benefitted from the Brotherhood's presence in Rockville as a crossroads between the Citadel and the rest of the Wasteland to the north. They got business from dozens of knights, most of whom got paid much more than the average waster.

The same could not be said of the others who lived in the city.

"So, Lewis," Cortez said, standing over the man. "I've heard you were aiding the Eagles operating a bit west of here."

"Fuck you!" Lewis shouted thrashing about, trying to loosen the ziptie around his wrists. Cortez brought out an experimental police baton from a duffel bag he carried from place to place. Unlike others, it was wired up to a microfusion battery, and when it came into contact with an uncompliant foe, the circuit would be completed, and the target would get a shock.

"Please, honey, just tell them what they want!" Lewis' wife, Katy Franklin, pleaded.

"I'd rather go to hell and dine with the devil than give anything to these motherfucking _cowards_!" Franklin barked.

"That can be arranged." Cortez said, activating the microfusion battery in the hilt of the baton. The machine gave off a high-pitched whir, and the diodes sparked from the surge of energy from start up.

Cortez raised the baton over his head.

"One chance, Franklin!" He shouted, getting ready to bring the baton down on the restrained man's neck. "Where the fuck are they hiding?"

"Go to he—" Cortez swung the baton on a downward arc. Sparks flowed forth as the air around the machine became charged. It made contact with flesh, and Franklin convulsed. Cortez held the baton in place, against Franklin's neck, for ten whole seconds. The flesh burned and sparked, charring very quickly.

"Oh Christ, stop!" Katy shouted, covering her face with her hands.

Cortez finally brought the baton back, away from the burned flesh of Franklin's neck. The man moaned, slumping over. His breathing was irregular and obviously difficult.

"Son of a bitch," he finally managed. "You're fucking low, you cowardly motherfuckers! If I wasn't restrained right now, I'd break all of your necks."

"Sure thing, Lewis." Cortez said, calmly inspecting his baton. It was the first time he'd used the thing, and boy, did it work. Maybe a little too well, Cortez figured.

"Yeah, I would." Franklin said between gasps. "Fuck! What right do you people have to come into our town… take away our sovereignty… and torture our people?"

"Every right to do so, as was vested in me by the Brotherhood's esteemed Elder Lyons." Cortez said, recalling what was said to him by Elder Lyons following the attack on his caravan.

"No, you're full of shit." Franklin said. "You may as well give up… I'm not telling you… a fuckin' thing…"

"Lewis, he will_ kill_ you!" Katy was trying in vain. Her chosen husband was thick-skulled man. That much was obvious to anyone who knew the couple.

"She's right, Lewis. I will kill you." Cortez said, thinking about how he would finally do it. He thought about mere shocking to death, but he wanted to do something more painful and slow. He could easily jam the baton down the man's throat, or gouge out his eyes. "You have one more chance. I'll make this an easy question. Where are your cowardly allies hiding, eh? They strike when nobody is expecting it, and don't stick around to give us a chance to fight back."

"That just makes them… smarter than you…" Franklin said. Cortez roughly grabbed the man's hair, raising his head.

"Is that really going to be the last thing that comes out of your mouth, you motherfucker?" Cortez asked, glaring into Franklin's eyes. The man was terrified, that much Cortez could see. But somehow, the façade wouldn't come down. Franklin spat at Cortez.

He wiped the spit off of his face.

"Oh, you're a dead man now." Cortez hissed, again gripping Franklin's hair. He smashed Franklin's teeth in, and rammed the baton into his mouth. The man began to convulse.

"Oh, no!" Katy shouted, grabbing onto Cortez' armor.

Cortez rammed the baton into the man's throat further and further. Blood began to well up in Franklin's mouth, and his eyes rolled back into his head. In one swift movement, Cortez tore the baton out of his late prisoner's throat. A long, sticky glob of crimson-red blood followed it. Lewis fell over quietly, blood still dribbling out of his mouth. Cortez examined the blood-soaked baton, and shook his head.

"Should have listened," Cortez said to the newly widowed Katy, who was weeping beside the corpse of her husband. "But, I suppose I can't save all of them." He went to his duffel bag and brought out a red-stained cloth. He turned the baton off – the thing was still smoking and sparking because of all the blood – and proceeded to wipe it clean.

* * *

><p>"Eagle Two, this is Nest." Lukas Sigurdsson said, holding down the transmit button on the radio receiver.<p>

"Roger, Nest. You're coming in loud and clear." Riley McAllister, leader of Eagle Two, returned the call.

Lukas was a bit hesitant about the mission. Eagle Three had been all but wiped out during an attack on five people. Granted, those five were heavily armed and armored, but still. Eagle Three was one of the largest and most skilled units the New Eagles had. Eagle Two was equally skilled, but they had only four people remaining.

"Your mission is simple here, Eagle Two. All you have to do is walk in and kill a few dozen people. Resistance should be light, since we confirmed the death of the Lone Wanderer. However, Megaton is a relative unknown, and if any of your team members are killed or injured, there is no friendly hideout nearby. Rockville is still well under the thumb of the Brotherhood."

"Understood, Nest." Riley acknowledged the risks. He was taking risks all the time, so damned if he didn't. He wasn't entirely sure why the leader of the Eagles, Lukas Sigurdsson, was being so cautious now. Best bet was that something had happened to one of the other Eagle units, like what had happened with Eagle Twenty-One immediately following the destruction of Andrew's Air Force Base. The good thing about operating in isolated cells is that nobody really knew anything about their leaders or coworkers. Whereabouts, activities, all of it was usually completely hidden to the average Eagle, with the one exception of when multiple Eagle cells were working together, which was a very rare occurrence.

"Alright," Riley said, placing the radio on the bed of Eagle Two's truck. "This is a very simple mission. We're going to go in there and make a huge fucking mess. Kill a couple dozen Megaton peons, maybe blow up some buildings, the whole shebang. There's one rule of engagement, so listen up!" Riley paused to make sure he had all of Eagle Two's attention. "Don't die. Really, don't fucking die. If you do, the Brotherhood would be able to confirm that you are not, in fact, Brotherhood knights. As soon as I say 'let's go', we're out of here. Is everything understood?"

The other members of Eagle Two nodded in agreement.

"Good. Let's get dressed up and get going; we're burning daylight here." Riley turned towards the stowed T-51b power armor on the bed of the truck, and with a bit of a struggle, got the 500-pound armor out onto the ground for each Eagle to pick up. Everyone stripped out of their normal combat armor and got their power armor rigged up.

Springvale was always so quiet. Ever since the Wanderer had cleared out the Raiders who'd hunkered down in the place trying to drill into Vault 101, the only resident was that old whore who'd run away from Colin Moriarty – why she thought it was a good idea to run only about a mile down the road was lost to Riley, and likely anybody else Colin sent her way. And why the residents of Megaton didn't bother trying to resettle Springvale was also a mystery. To Riley, at least, it seemed safer and more defensible than some rusted-out pile of junk.

He quickly hefted the chestpiece over his shoulders. It was heavy armor, certainly. Advanced Power Armor Mark II always seemed better to Riley than any pre-war combat armor – pre-war power armor always seemed to aesthetics-oriented rather than utilitarian. APA Mk II felt lighter on his shoulders, was easier to move about it, and, at least in Riley's mind, was tougher than the T-51b the Brotherhood and other pre-war organizations preferred. It may just be that APA Mk II is custom-built for every soldier, rather than being scavenged armor designed for somebody who was long-since dead.

"Oh, shit!" One of the Eagles commented, "Feels good to be back in power armor again!"

After sealing the joints and tightening up the leg pieces, Riley stretched about a bit, to test the mobility of his suit. He found his right arm wasn't particularly mobile, so he loosened the shoulder piece. That corrected the problem. Finally, he picked up the 20-pound helmet. The fit was a bit snug, but it worked either way. He made sure the oxygen vents on the mouthpiece were completely open, and then sealed the neck sheath. If he didn't make sure the vents were open, he'd likely black out midway on the walk to Megaton. That was another thing about pre-war power armor he hated – and ironically the very thing that saved the founders of the Brotherhood as the ashes of the nuclear war still lingered in the cloud cover.

"Alright," Riley said, picking up a plasma rifle picked off of one of the dead Brotherhood paladins or knights. "Is everybody ready?" He examined the other Eagles. They were completely unrecognizable under all of that armor. The fact that the voice projector obscured their voices under a layer of what amounts to static didn't exactly help their identity problems.

"Uh, I believe so, sir." One of the Eagles said. All that Riley could tell was that he was the one carrying a minigun.

"This is going to suck," Riley muttered. "Alright, lets saddle up and get a move on."

The Eagles began walking, slowly, the one mile road towards the city of Megaton. The heat started bugging the Eagles even on their first steps.

"Holy shit," one of them cussed midway through the walk, breathing heavily. "What the fuck were those people thinking when they made this shit so goddamn heavy?"

"I wish I knew!" another one of the Eagles agreed.

"Alright, cut the chatter. We're almost there." Riley said as they rounded a corner. Megaton loomed ahead of them, waiting to get fucked up.

An hour after setting off, Riley passed by the robot that 'guarded' the outskirts of Megaton. It was a half-assed attempt of giving the town a Podunk feel, an attempt which stumbled over its own failure. The machine wasn't imposing or dangerous. What was, was the sniper the people of Megaton had placed on a deck overlooking the entrance to Megaton. His name was Stockholm, from what Riley had heard following a stay in the city.

He watched the Eagles trudging closer, keeping his DKS-501 sniper rifle trained on the group, and specifically Riley as the apparent leader. He'd likely, at least according to Lukas, be one of the only bits of resistance from the town. The other was probably Lucas Simms, maybe his son, and then some robot the town had hidden in an armory on the far side of town. The civilians, though smart-mouthed, as Riley had learned, were not particularly dangerous. The Lone Wanderer was, hopefully, dead. That man could massacre an entire division's worth of Enclave soldiers, let alone five lone Eagles.

Riley opened the front gate. The entire time, Stockholm kept watching the group. He waved to Lucas Simms, who visibly hesitated before approaching Riley and the other Eagles – disguised as Brotherhood of Steel knights or paladins.

"Hello there," the man said, his voice drawn deeper than what Riley was expecting. Simms had never talked to Riley during his last stay in the town. "I'm going to take a guess as to what you're here for. Unfortunately, we haven't managed to sort through the ruins entirely."

Eagle Two almost breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief. That must have meant that John Fredrickson, the Wanderer, was dead.

"We're assuming control of this town in the name of Elder Lyons," Riley said, immediately recognizing how stupid that sounded.

"Really now?" Simms asked, scoffing. "Now look here, boy, I don't appreciate five people showing up at random and telling me they're going to take over my town. So I suggest you leave quietly while you can."

"If you stand in our way, you will be cut down." Riley said. _What, am I a robot?_

"Well I'm not moving," Simms dug his heels into the dust, and shouldered his rifle, a Type 93 – a copy of the famous Soviet AKM. "If you want this town, you'll have to take it over my cold, lifeless body." Riley was not prepared for what happened next.

A hail of bullets from his minigun-wielding comrade tore into Simms' abdomen. Simms had no time to react, and instead of getting a shot off at Riley or the other Eagles, ended up harmlessly discharging his weapon into the air. Within seconds, Simms was completely disemboweled, his blood splattered against the ground behind him. He fell over, cut almost completely in half.

Riley stumbled forwards as a bullet harshly impacted the back of his helmet. Stockholm would've killed Riley then and there had it not been for the T-51b power armor. For once, Riley was thankful for the awkward armor.

"Up on the balcony!" One of the Eagles shouted as Riley fell to his knees, ears ringing.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Riley screamed in his head, clutching at his helmet. A .308 round at less than a hundred feet was a hell of a thing to get hit by.

Finally, Riley's mind registered what was happening. He could see Simms lying on the ground ahead of the Eagles, splattered. Civilians were running about, fleeing the scene, most of them screaming. A few of the more daring civilians took cover, and got off pot-shots at the Eagles. Stockholm fell backwards as a plasma bolt burned into his left arm. His rifle dropped to the ground, and was quickly followed by the man himself. Gathering his nerve, Riley stood and picked up the plasma rifle he had dropped on the ground following the hit from Stockholm's sniper rifle.

He shouldered the rifle and followed his target, leading the man ahead just a bit. He squeezed the trigger, and a bright-green bolt of plasma shuddered out of the rifle, striking the target just between the shoulder blades. The man went down, writhing, tearing his shirt off. His skin was literally boiling from the superheated plasma, exposing the bone and a layer of bright-red muscle. A little ways away, a familiar sound: a Mister Gutsy.

"Come on, move outta my way!" he was screaming, shoving past fleeing civilians. "I have to get to the combat zone, get outta the way!"

"Look alive!" Riley shouted, turning to face the voice. The Mister Gutsy was heavily armed. If he got too close, he could burn the Eagles out easily. He opened fire. The plasma bolts struck the armored hull of the Gutsy, who cussed. The gutsy had a much more refined plasma weapon than the Eagles' own rifles. It was fully automatic, firing bolts of plasma 30% more effective than a normal plasma rifle at a rate of over 850 rounds per minute – that increase may seem somewhat insignificant, but it was more than enough to cause everything to melt, bone included. When it opened up, in spite of the 500-pound armor, all of the Eagles rolled out of the way. Plasma had a way of seeping into the cracks and crevices that might be found in any kind of armor.

"That's right, you Red bastards! Run like the cowards you are!" The Gutsy screamed. A bolt struck a civilian in the chest. "Shit, see what you made me do, you commie sonsabitches?"

"EMP grenade!" Riley called out. He stood up for just a few seconds, with the pin and spoon of the EMP grenade in-hand. He lobbed the grenade, which bounced off of the Gutsy.

"Ha! So out of ammo that you have to throw rocks!" The Gutsy screamed. The grenade detonated. The Gutsy was struck by a single arc of electricity, and sparks flowed from all of its lights and weapons. The jellied gas tank detonated, covering the machine in flames. Its plasma weapon shorted, and ceased to work. The machine itself fell to the ground, everything within fried beyond repair.

* * *

><p>The rest of the attack had been a cakewalk. The Eagles tore up Megaton, killed a lot of people, and destroyed their defenses. Hopefully, they'd think it was the Brotherhood who'd committed the assault.<p>

"Alright!" Riley exclaimed as the group headed towards Springvale. He tore his helmet off, and carried it under his left arm. "Jesus, these things are smothering."

"What now, sir?" one of the other Eagles, Joe Baylor asked, also taking his helmet off.

"We ought to report in to Nest and get other orders. Honestly, I don't want to stay here for much longer. I'd rather we were participating in the assault on Fort Independence." Riley said. He couldn't wait to get a bottle of water, preferably cold. Luckily, Eagle Two had salvaged an old cooler on their downtime, so there was a supply of adequately cold water stocked in the bed of their truck. Provided the generator hadn't shorted.

"That would be the seventh combat op in five days!" Tristan Delacroix complained. "And, more than likely, the death of our unit as a whole." The man was always complaining, though.

"If we've survived thus far," Johann von Schenk pointed out, "then we can survive one more combat op. Come on, wouldn't you like to have a base you didn't have to evacuate after two weeks?"

Riley was the first to the truck. He tossed his helmet and plasma rifle down on the bed, and hefted himself on afterwards. He opened the cooler, and tossed all of the other Eagles a bottle of ice-cold water. All of it was gone in less than ten seconds. Riley, after everybody had placed their empty bottles in one of the several baskets Eagle Two's truck had on board, picked up the radio receiver.

"Nest, this is Eagle Two, over?" he said. The other Eagles were already stripping out of their armor. Where it went at that point wasn't particularly important; its purpose had been served, and very well, too.

"Eagle Two, this is nest, we read you. Sitrep, Eagle Two?" Lukas Sigurdsson asked. The man needed to keep track of his units.

"Our mission was a success, sir. No casualties on our part, but we inflicted at least two hundred upon the people of Megaton. Property damage must range in the area of a couple hundred thousand caps, at least. Their defenses were also heavily damaged."

"Good, good," Lukas said. "I've got a few confederates in Rockville I can contact to go to Megaton and start spreading propaganda. Report to Fairfax within two days; the other Eagle units stationed there will brief you on the next move." Riley nodded.

"Yes, sir. Understood. Eagle Two, out." He placed the radio onto the bed of the truck, and started to remove his armor.

* * *

><p>Cortez was pissed off. The citizens of Rockville were being completely non-compliant. Every single one, out of the fifty he'd 'interrogated' refused to speak a word, even on threat of death. And he had followed through with each threat, too.<p>

_Am I not scary enough?_ He asked himself. He opened the closet door of the office in which he was conducting the business of running Rockville, the Mayor's office. Inside that closet was a single oblong mirror, beautifully preserved.

Cortez was a tall man by any standards. Standing at six feet seven inches, he was very imposing. His build was like that of an ox: big and well-muscled. Perhaps the only thing that seemed out of place, at least to Cortez, was his pencil moustache. He caressed the moustache, trying to dispel the thought that it might have been that which was the cause of all of his problems.

His office door burst open, its lock snapped in two by the paladin who had barged in. Cortez jumped and yelped.

"Sir, we got some trouble." The paladin said. "The civilians are rioting. They've killed three knights already."

Rockville had been the New Eagles' hub prior to its occupation by the Brotherhood. Most of its citizens – two hundred or so – were formerly Enclave citizens living in any of the settlements which were destroyed by Liberty Prime. The rest were a menagerie of people from all walks of life, from former Brotherhood outcasts to survivors of the destruction of Olney. It was a bit natural that they would resist Brotherhood rule, the rule of an organization which was at war with the city's prior owners and protectors.

Cortez followed the paladin out onto the walls of the city. The paladin was right, the city was in turmoil. They surrounded the city center, where the Brotherhood was hunkering down. Knights must have been bracing the doorways and windows, as the Rockville citizens were finding it difficult to get into the building.

"Is there a megaphone anywhere?" Cortez asked the paladin.

"Uh, no sir. But we can jury-rig a makeshift one using the com system." The paladin said

"Alright. Do that. And get a platoon of the knights from the barracks below up onto the walls." Cortez ordered. The paladin saluted, and went off to do his tasks. Not ten minutes later, fifteen Brotherhood knights came up on deck, all wielding plasma or laser rifles, with the exception of two, who were carrying a heavy-duty automatic plasma turret.

The paladin came back with a radio receiver. Cortez took it, and turned it on.

"Citizens of Rockville," he began, "I offer you all one chance! Leave now, and all will be forgiven!"

Some of the Rockville citizens began to throw rocks at Cortez and the Brotherhood knights. One of the stones struck Cortez on the brow, leaving a nasty gash.

"Alright, if that's the way you want to play it – open fire!" The knights began to open fire on the massed mob below. Dozens of the fools fell beneath plasma, each bolt doing a ghastly amount of damage to their target. Screams of terror replaced screams of anger, and the citizens of Rockville started an unorganized retreat. By the time the town square was clear, at least a hundred or more of Rockville's citizens were dead or dying.

* * *

><p><strong>My intention here was to illustrate that neither side is innocent. Both sides are willing to commit unspeakable atrocities that could spark revolutions in our world, just so as to bring their faction closer to victory.<strong>


	5. Delusion

**This is a really short chapter which I had intended to fit in during the events of Vengeance, though I ultimately removed it due to it not fitting into the theme of the chapter. I decided to rewrite it to be time-relevant, so instead of happening while Skylar was in Canterbury, he is back at "Nest". The original version was heavily inspired by an episode of Twilight Zone I was watching at the time of writing it (most notably the end) but most of the elements that made the two similar were largely stripped out in this version.**

* * *

><p>Skylar Ericsson sat on the edge of his bed, holding his head in his hands. His headaches were beginning to get worse, but there were no painkillers apart from Morphine, which would seem like overkill. But those headaches, they were like short migraines to Skylar. He'd only felt them <em>after<em> he'd awaken from his cryo chamber, never during the long weeks of preparation beforehand.

He stood. A sharp, striking pain struck the center of his head, just behind his eyes. Or so it felt to Skylar, in any case. He hung his head in his hands, groaning as his balance was lost for a moment. After shaking his head, eyes closed tightly, he looked up, and saw somebody he thought had been dead.

"Skylar, what are you doing?" Sheila asked. Skylar was shocked to see Sheila again. Her bright, grey-blue eyes were still as mesmerizing as they had been so many years beforehand. "You have to stand still for a bit, and then you can do whatever you want." She jabbed something into his mouth, a small wooden stick to get his tongue out of the way.

She shone her light in his eyes to check for dilation.

"Well, considering the circumstances, you seem perfectly healthy." Sheila concluded, writing down her findings. "Is there something wrong? You got up suddenly, like there was something else you were supposed to be doing."

Skylar remained speechless. The United States Army emblem was clear on the left breast of Sheila's lab coat, with the insignia of the Office of Strategic Services on the right shoulder.

"Uh, I just… I had a black-out there for a sec." Sheila cocked her head, and brushed her hair over the nearer shoulder.

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"I just… never mind, it's unimportant." Skylar said, averting the question.

"Okay. Don't forget that Doctor Morris is going to be waiting for you down in the cryolab." Sheila said, standing. "Be careful."

"Okay." Skylar said, quietly. Was all of that before, was it a dream? Some sort of drawn-out nightmare? He stood, and looked around his room. It was the same room he'd occupied before, that much was certain. Maybe all of that stuff… the New Eagles… the Brotherhood of Steel… the nuclear apocalypse… perhaps it was all just a dream.

Skylar rose, memories filling his head as he breathed in the utterly disgusting smell – or perhaps, it was the lack thereof – of the sterilized halls of the facility, the cryogenics research facility. Morris was going to prep Skylar for the first test freeze. Four others would be there, two civilians and two soldiers, much like Skylar. He walked through the complex, instinctively taking turns at certain intersections. Soldiers in their uniforms and doctors of various sorts wearing white labcoats meandered about in those halls.

One hallway had the word CRYOLAB inscribed into an eye-level metal sign. Below that word, there were several different names, members of the project. Doctor Morris was the first name, next to the title DIRECTOR. Skylar began the trek down that hall, leading to a small, cramped elevator which could only fit two or three people, depending on their girth.

"Skylar, are you feeling okay?" one of the scientists passing by asked. Skylar didn't recognize the man's face. "You look like you're a bit… spaced out today."

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine." Skylar said, proceeding to the elevator. There was a short pause, and the unfamiliar scientist reached out, grabbing Skylar on the shoulder.

"Skylar, that elevator is dangerous." He said. Skylar violently threw off the man's hand.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I go down there all the time." Skylar said, getting a bit upset.

"That elevator hasn't worked properly in decades. The cables have started rusting, and they could go at any minute." The scientist said.

"What?" Skylar asked, confused. "They were just repaired last week! Doctor Morris won't be happy about this."

"Doctor Morris…?" the scientist asked, closely examining the CRYOLAB sign. He dusted something off of it. "Oh, sweet Jesus." He said. "Skylar, come with me to the infirmary. Lukas will not be happy about this."

"Lukas?" Skylar asked.

"Oh come on. Are you fucking with me or what? You're his adjutant." The scientist said.

Skylar suddenly remembered. He'd thought that whole thing was a dream. Which was it? Was the wasteland a reality? Everything seemed so real. To Skylar's eyes, the facility was in a pristine state. He'd forgotten everything that had happened in the wasteland, even his psychotic breakdowns. But what about Sheila? She must have been real. Skylar could feel her, and smell her. She _was_ real.

Skylar's vision was flooded with a cold white light. Pain emanated from his eye sockets into his head, wracking every ounce of his body. He opened his mouth, but couldn't sense if he was screaming or not. He fell to his knees, cradling his head in his hands. There was a pounding in his eardrum, an unintelligible mess of voices and sounds, ranging from death screams to the gasping of a lover in ecstasy. Then his amnesia faded, and he recalled everything that had happened. The wasteland was very real, in spite of his hallucinations. The pounding in his eardrum was actually one of the radio operators – Ulrich Lacey – panicking.

Vision returned. The facility, though far from dilapidated, was in disrepair. All of the radio operators, and some of their families, were gathered around Ulrich and Skylar.

"What the fuck is going on?" Lukas Sigurdsson asked, pushing his way through the mob of radio operators. "Skylar, what happened?" Skylar couldn't answer; his heart was sinking. He knew he could never go back in time.

_Why, God?_ He asked silently, _why did my body have to survive, where my comrades decayed?_

"Skylar, I want you to go to the infirmary and take a rest. This is getting worse and worse with each delusion, and we're going to need to find a way to stop those hallucinations." Lukas ordered. Skylar was escorted by Ulrich to the infirmary, which wasn't far down the corridor from the hallway leading to the cryolab. The radio operators stared at Skylar, and subsequently at Lukas. The commander of the New Eagles got pissed off at that. "What the fuck are you all looking at? Get back to your quarters." The radio operators silently walked off on their separate ways. Lukas pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. With the way things were going, there might be a time when Skylar didn't recover from a hallucination at all.

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><p><strong>Please R&amp;R!<strong>


	6. Rebuilding

**My shortest chapter yet, with a quality to match. I recently got a new job, so I haven't had as much time to sit down and write. Like many of my other chapters, there was actually originally another thousand or so words to this one, with the old version going into more detail about the events of this day on the timeline. I may eventually replace this chapter with one I can actually live with if I ever find the time.**

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><p><em>Rebuilding<em>

Ashley Rodriguez thought of the citizens of Megaton as ants, the way they scurried about tending to their tasks. Since her compatriots had attacked, they had been standing their ground, mercilessly gunning down anything that got within visible range. It was an interesting sight, given that they had previously let four men do the work of hundreds – the Lone Wanderer, Lucas Simms, Jericho, and Stockholm. Them, and their Mister Gutsy.

Without their protectors, Megaton's citizens were in a fairly deep mess. With the _actual_ Brotherhood nearby, in Rockville, they had been left completely defenseless. That is, until Harden Simms had taken the reins. Though not even seventeen, the boy had more firearms experience than almost all of the other remaining Megaton citizens who shuffled about back and forth combined – all thanks to his father, of course. When Harden took control, he did so with only resentment at his father's death driving him; had his father still been alive, or had Harden not been so fond of him, he may well have just left. But, he was close to his father. The others simply let him take control, their disheartened mood leaving them no strength to resist any change.

Harden was a smart one, certainly, and his taking control of the city was probably the best thing that had happened to those people since the Lone Wanderer scrabbled out of Vault 101 amidst a hail of gunfire. He was, however, vastly more reserved in terms of his thinking, and as such, rather than leaving the door wide open, Harden had ordered the construction of a large sandbag wall and gun emplacements around the entrance of the city. His was a defensive strategy. The three big guns – Ashley couldn't tell what kind they were; she didn't share her late husband's fascination with firearms – in the armory certainly helped with that strategy. They were heavy, so not particularly maneuverable, but they fired rifle rounds, and at an astonishing rate. Nothing, no matter how heavily armored, could come within those guns' range and expect to live. Or, at least, not for long.

As with ants, there were three types. Workers, the backbone of the colony – all but a few of the city fell into such a class. Their work was essential to Megaton, though individually they were completely replaceable. There were, of course, the soldiers – Harden Simms, primarily, although he had trained ten others to operate those big guns. They were vital – no, imperative – to Megaton's defense. Without them, any raider could waltz in and slaughter the whole town. Then there was the queen – or in this case, king – Harden Simms. Meek though he may be, he was the meistro, the orchestrator of the entire city. He planned any operations, from mass scavenging to diplomatic missions, to training more citizens as militia.

Though she felt no kind of pity or shame for how she had betrayed the people of Megaton, Ashley couldn't help but feel some pity for Harden. He reminded her in many aspects of her own late son, and as such was endearing to her. He, more than likely, didn't feel any kind of attachment to Ashley, though he'd been kind enough to release her from her prior house arrest during the investigation into the Wanderer's death. He treated her with far more respect than almost all of the other Megaton citizens. For those reasons, she couldn't help but feel some sympathy for the poor boy, and gladly aided the construction of Megaton's sandbag walls.

Ashley had done her fair share that day, however; she wasn't quite sure why the Megaton civvies didn't just move into the abandoned town just south and east of their home, Springvale. It was pretty much empty of life, and from what Ashley had seen, it was walled in on all sides by steep cliff faces with only several roads leading in or out.

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><p>Paladin Cortez hated Megaton. They'd sent a rather rude messenger to declare their unrest over the Brotherhood of Steel's attack… even though they had never attacked, and even if they had, Cortez wasn't informed about it. That didn't stop the messenger from not believing Cortez, however; it was only the Desert Eagle that scared the man off. The encounter was non-sequitur, however, for if Cortez decided to send some knights after Megaton, not only would the knights likely die, but the citizens of Rockville would be able to successfully revolt. That was more than likely, anyhow.<p>

Cortez brushed it off, however, and went back to the boring droll of the day, sitting at his desk, writing reports and notes to his superiors in the Citadel. It was a necessary, if annoyingly bureaucratic, portion of his job as a Paladin, the other being a leader in combat. After all, if he didn't keep track of losses and findings, who else would? The scribes? Those fools were too busy cataloguing all the useless shit they volunteer others to risk their necks over. To Cortez, that was a waste of men and materiel; the New Eagles were facing them down, and never could be traced back. There didn't seem to be a chain of command, just common elements between them.

Maybe that was their whole intention. Their intentions were unknown because they probably only did what their higher-ups – if they existed – told them. And their higher-ups, in that case, didn't tell the Eagles who were captured anything about their plans.

"No," Cortez muttered, the retort directed at the invisible seeker that was his higher thinking functions, "Their officers _couldn't_ tell them the captured ones anything. What was I thinking?"

He shook it off and continued the report he was working on. It was an after-action report from one of Cortez' guards, written regarding unusual lights on the horizon late at night.

… _and as they approached, they dispersed in five directions, one overhead, and two spaced out equally away and behind that first light. I cannot say what it was, although the lights made no noise and from my perspective were travelling immensely fast, and any discernible details were blurred._

Scowling, Cortez tore the paper up and tossed it away. What was wrong with people nowadays, Cortez wondered. Were that knight in front of Cortez, he would be decked. Why waste time writing about phantoms when very real threats presented themselves to the Brotherhood on a daily basis?

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><p>Riley McAllister hated driving over long distances. The truck was useful for getting short distances in a short period of time, maybe ten miles or so. But the terrain going towards Fairfax from the north had been so warped by the Great War that Riley had to navigate around all the boulders and artificial rocky mounds that had arisen. That was making the trip take a dreadfully long time, and to Riley was a waste of time. He and his team could easily have gone over the obstacles on foot, but Sigurdsson wanted each Eagle troupe to have a truck.<p>

So it was a bitter-sweet device. Good for some things, entirely unsuited for others.

"How much longer?" Tristan Delacroix whined.

"Jesus, don't you ever shut up?" Joe Baylor retorted.

"Go fuck yourself, Baylor."

"I'll fuck your mother in her grave, you ingrate." Joe cussed. Riley didn't want a fight on the way to Fairfax; from experience, Riley found it 80% more likely that one would backstab the other in the midst of combat. But rocky terrain on a steep incline ahead meant that he had to focus on driving, and not with dealing with their petty dispute.

"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty little sister of yours, Joe."

"I'll break your damn neck if you do, pedophile."

"Come on, people," Johann von Schenk interjected at last, "We're almost to Fairfax, just another two miles. Nobody has to fuck anybody, okay?"

"Thank you!" Riley exclaimed, as the truck crested over another steep hill.

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><p>Lukas observed Skylar from a distance. Since he'd had that mental breakdown, Skylar seemed unusually dark, and brooding. To Lukas, it was a bad case of future shock, but to tell the truth Lukas had no idea what was going on, no moreso than the doctor who diagnosed Skylar with post-trauma stress disorder. Lukas wanted, but lacked the means, to help Skylar deal with the problem. According to one of the few things Skylar had said to the doctor, the ex-U.S. soldier had been seeing images from his past, reliving events that had happened hundreds of years beforehand. Lukas could grasp how frustrating the concept that you left your entire life behind was, but at the same time he couldn't empathize with Skylar, for Lukas hadn't ever gone through the same events.<p>

On that note, Lukas hadn't ever had to deal with personal loss; he was never married, and his parents had died well before he was old enough to be conscious, during the attack on the oil platform off the coast of California. His only real friend was James Patterson, who was a radio operator in the nest.

He left the command hub and headed for the mess hall. The day's events had been a dull blur of written reports and tactical maps, planning for Day X, when Fort Independence would no longer be independent, when Eagle troopers would run over their inhabitants – the Brotherhood of Steel outcasts. The fort was strategically positioned just west of Arlington, which would give the Eagles a good striking position, and it would be a great hindrance to Brotherhood operations just west of the fort.


	7. Lexington

**I had a bit more time to write this one out. It's more centralized than the last chapter, and IMHO is a bit more expository. I use an unusual amount of dialogue here...**

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><p><em>Lexington<em>

Harden Simms quietly read the training report. A few ex-Enclave officers had show up not two days before, luck alone keeping them from being shot up a mile off, offering to train the fledgling Megaton militia force to better defend itself. The force was just four hundred strong, yet even that number, dwarfed by the cast of thousands the Enclave had at the height of its power, was overwhelming for the only man with any kind of formal firearms training. Under the Enclave officers – Bruce Alexander and Phillip Pierce – the militiamen showed a 70% improvement in accuracy within the first day.

"Professional military training," Bruce, the more talkative and jovial of the two, said of that obvious improvement, "That's why we used to be the most feared military machine in the world."

"I'll bet." Harden agreed. He gave the papers back to Bruce, and entered his shack. He held the door for Bruce, who, after some hesitation, entered as well.

"So what are your plans for this militia?" Bruce prompted. He adjusted the trenchcoat he was wearing, obviously being overheated in the thing.

"You need a drink? We have purified water if you want some."

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

Harden opened the fridge across the room from the front door where the two had entered. He pulled two bottles of room-temperature purified water from its shelves, and carefully latched the door back in place. Bruce muttered a word of thanks and a toast, before gulping the entire bottle in less than ten seconds.

"Anyway, as you had asked, out plans for the militia." Harden gestured towards a map pinned up to a wall running laterally to the wall which the fridge rested against. "I'm trying not to get too far ahead of myself. But, I have been thinking about plans to eliminate the Brotherhood of Steel presence in Rockville. Both to secure the area around our fine city, and to get some kind of vengeance for the poor people who were killed in their attack."

"What kinds of plans?" Bruce inquired, cocking his head.

"Well the most likely one to succeed would be if we lured in a decent-sized portion of Brotherhood forces. We'd probably send out a platoon's worth of militia to do this."

"Then the Brotherhood would get caught in the crossfire from the machinegun emplacements."

"Exactly," Harden affirmed, "then we could get a few more platoons out there to run out the rest of the Brotherhood. But they're dug in there pretty deep."

A silence set in. Harden continued examining the map of the area, while Bruce argued with himself.

"Harden, I know of a location where we could get some Vertibirds," he said at last, immediately regretting the tossing out of that suggestion.

"Oh?" Harden asked, intrigued. "That would make our forces just that much more lethal. Where are these Vertibirds?"

"I wouldn't trust your people with them." Bruce said quickly.

"Then why bring the idea up to begin with?"

"I'm tossing ideas out there. It's called 'brainstorming'. And anyways, I meant that some of my friends might be willing to pilot the things."

"Ah, I see. And why can't you just train some of the militia?"

"Because, Harden, that's two month's worth of training!" Bruce said.

"We have time." Harden came back. It wasn't entirely untrue, either, as Megaton's militia was still very underequipped; it would only be after Mark Walburgh came back with news from the Pitt that they might get new weapons and equipment, from a treaty drafted between Ashur and the Lone Wanderer. If not, then it would take even longer as Jay McCoy, the lone gunsmith in the entire DMV area, managed to get the supplies to produce weapons in any great quantity. So for all intents and purposes, Megaton had all the time in the world.

"Well here's the deal then," Bruce said after some time considering it. "It will be easier to train your people with virtual reality pods. The closest ones that I know of are in a heavily-blocked off portion of Arlington. If you send, say, fifty militia, to aid some of my people, I'll train yours in exchange."

"Your people?" Harden asked. There were some things that weren't connecting here, and it was becoming obvious that Bruce, and likely Phillip, were not just ex-Enclave. They were still active. "I thought the Enclave was destroyed at Adams Air Force Base."

"That's what everybody wants you to believe, Harden," Bruce clarified, "Have you heard of the New Eagles?"

"No." Harden said simply, and it was true. Bruce furrowed his eyebrows.

"Jesus," he said simply. "Okay, well, here it goes. The New Eagles are the Enclave. Under new management and underground, but the Enclave nonetheless."

"And you trust me?"

"An enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?" Bruce asked, rhetorically.

"I suppose." Harden said, studying Bruce's body language for some indication that he may pull something stupid. But there was none; Bruce was utterly relaxed, his arms spread out as he rested on one of Harden's tables. If he was going to pull something, it was wonderfully disguised.

"Well we're going to head up to Moriarty's tavern if you don't mind. Me and Phil, that is." Bruce said, showing himself out of Harden's home.

"Okay." Harden called after. Was trusting an Enclave soldier truly a wise decision? He and Phillip had both helped Megaton in the wake of the Brotherhood assault, so they must have kind of motive that involved Megaton. Only one truly came to mind, and that was that the Enclave might use Megaton's militia as a fighting force. The wisdom in that was in doubt to Harden, though he really couldn't pass up the opportunity to acquire Vertibirds. Maybe they could trade for some jet fighters from Rivet City, too.

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><p>Cortez oversaw the construction of a new defensive platform. It had been titled, by that arrogant scribe who had accompanied the device, the 'Mark XXX Automated Defense Platform.' Cortez preferred the simpler, 'Triple-X', not like the scribe cared for his opinion.<p>

The device was being built in a makeshift tower which dominated Rockville's skyline. The building had been constructed hastily, only barely passing scribe building standards, yet it gave a 360-degree view of the wasteland, in every direction. It must have been at least twice the height of the other tallest building, the town hall.

It rested inside a ball-and-socket joint, with hydraulic arms to rotate and tilt the chassis so as to give the rather large rocket launcher a better angle on a target. Two .30 caliber machineguns based on the M1919A4 were mounted aside of the main weapon, that missile launcher. Altogether, the weapon was more than capable of fending off most attacks. Combined with the Mk IVs, nothing could get by.

Yet this was something which disturbed Cortez to no end. Though certainly a boon to morale, the weapons were easily overridden by one with sharp wits, given that they ran on an operating system so old that almost anybody could learn how to use it. The Lone Wanderer, fresh out of Vault 101, was able to do just that, single-handedly infiltrating Site R, Raven Rock, without attracting attention, not least because of his abilities with the UOS.

A single man could disable the entire array, which would leave Rockville defenseless. Well, apart from the two-dozen armed and armored Brotherhood knights, that is. In open combat, the Brotherhood was indomitable. However, the Eagles preferred a less-honorable style of combat. They struck where the Brotherhood was weakest, ambushing caravans and destroying lightly-guarded settlements.

Cortez groaned at the thought of those guerrillas. He stepped out onto the balcony of the Rockville town hall, away from the maps, schematics, and architects who were aiding in the construction of Rockville's "flak tower", as the knights called it. It was night-time. Ever since the world had ended, there was very little light. Where once the DMV was filled with so-called scarlet nights, where the lights of distant cities kept the sky a dull crimson, there was now total darkness. Cortez' great-great-grandfather, who he had only known for a few years before death, knew what it was like before the war. Though he was but a child at the time, Cortez' great grandfather could recall details about the pre-war life and how much better it was than the wasteland the world had become. From lush forests and meadows, running streams and towering mountain peaks, to the grandest cities. He had said that the scarlet nights that plagued the area were very much annoying, a sentiment which Cortez did not share; he was unsettled by the lack of light on the horizon. Like an ominous sign, no light, no hope.

It had been a great blow to everyone when Cortez' great-great-grandfather died, at an age that was unnatural by any standards; he'd lived to 171, kept alive 60 years beyond his true expiration date by the marvels of pre-war technology, bed-ridden though he may have been. One of the last true survivors of the Great War had passed on, and with him went truly accurate tales of Pre-War, at least amongst the non-ghoul population.

Glancing over his shoulder at the Triple-X, silhouetted against the moon, Cortez watched the four knights working over-time to get the device up and running, feeling something like pity for them for having to put out so much effort for comparatively little gain. Still, everybody had a purpose.

A stone struck Cortez from below, hitting him in the temple. He recoiled and grunted, turning to see who had tossed the stone. Nothing but shadows could be seen, another unfortunate side-effect of the global destruction of electronic devices. None of the streetlights worked, which made any attempt to discern people out of the darkness a nigh-impossible task. Sighing in defeat, Cortez returned to his office, where the architects, seemingly oblivious to his absence, continued drafting designs and making adjustments to compensate for any manner of thing. None of it was particularly interesting to Cortez, who felt more at home in combat than anywhere else. As a knight, Cortez was often sent on patrols. While out, he would satisfy his bloodlust on unsuspecting rabble of the wastes, easily dispatching enemies. The elder had taken notice, however, and before long Cortez was stuck in what was essentially a paper-pushing job, caring for the town of Rockville, whose residents hated the Brotherhood.

The tortures were the most exciting part of the job. Cortez relished in their screams as the Rockville peons, ziptied to a telephone post, were dismembered, disemboweled, cut open, or crushed. He wasn't even really looking for information for the most part, though the little tidbits some of the weaker folk gave up were worth the effort.

And then the scene just several nights before, in the wake of an insurrection! How Cortez enjoyed the bolts of plasma streaking through darkness, in an entrancing manner that could only be described as beautiful. How the people reacted, as well; that was equally as entrancing. What plasma did to flesh was an amazing thing. That superheated gel could scorch through armor and get in between their plates, but on bare flesh it worked best, often tearing entire limbs off. The massacre reminded Cortez of a story he'd heard from his half-educated great-great-grandfather, that of the scene in Massachusetts, where America was born and Great Britain cast aside.

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><p><strong>As always, please R&amp;R.<strong>


	8. Skirmish in Fairfax

**Combat, my favorite subject. Morphine = Med-X.**

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><p><em>Skirmish in Fairfax<em>

Riley McAllister locked back the charging handle of his R91 assault rifle. It was a solid weapon by any standards, based on the venerable H&K G3 design. It was certainly lighter, firing a 5.56mm NATO round and weighing in at just 6 pounds – in that respect it was closer to an HK33 than the heavier G3. Its frame was mostly iron, while the furniture – the stock and the foreguard – was constructed of wood. The weapon had been produced by Ashur's contingent of slaves, who controlled the city of Pittsburgh north of the DMV.

It was accurate enough for the Eagles, and easy enough to maintain – that was why it was used by the National Guard before the war. It didn't offer that much punch, however, with rounds often plinking off of the thick plates that made up the power armor used by Brotherhood knights. Lucky shots or deliberate aim was required to make the relationship between the marginalized Eagles and the Brotherhood of Steel work, a fundamental conclusion that one must acknowledge when dealing with guerrillas. No matter how many or how high of quality the Eagles might be, the fact was that they were always losing. The Brotherhood could afford losses, the Eagles could not. It was a matter not of winning, but of losing in such a way that the Brotherhood lost more than the Eagles did.

Individual skirmishes were easy enough to win, however, and that's what Riley's troupe of Eagles intended to do in Fairfax. There was a small contingent of Brotherhood Outcasts in the ruins. Eagle Twenty-Four would support Eagle Two, striking out with booby traps erected the night before. Once the Outcasts were clear it would be a trivial matter to get into position to attack Fort Independence.

Tristan had been volunteered by the others to lure the Outcasts into the trap, a four-way intersection under which C4 charges had been planted. As soon as the Outcasts were over top of the C4, it would be detonated by Eagle Twenty-Four, and then any survivors would be executed.

"Alright, go!" Riley commanded, pointing Tristan in the direction of the Outcast outpost. Tristan sprinted, hollering and firing off his rifle to get the Outcasts' attention.

"Hey, you motherfuckers! Come get me, cocksuckers!" Two Outcasts popped their heads out the window of the bombed-out building in which they had been sheltering. Riley watched, keeping quiet as Tristan was fired upon by the Outcasts, who came out in force with laser and plasma rifles, alongside conventional firearms. Tristan made for the car barricade which the Eagles were taking cover near, and occasionally traded rounds with the Outcasts. He took a laser to the right arm, searing his flesh and tearing a decent-sized hole in his shirt sleeve. He howled, but did not stop to check the wound.

The Outcasts approached the trap. There was a yellow X where the trap's epicenter lay. The two first Outcasts tread over the X, and Riley signaled Eagle Twenty-Four's demolitions expert who was waiting in a nearby building. There were five total Outcasts who had pursued Tristan, each of whom was over the C4 trap. Tristan slid into cover just as the C4 went up.

The entire street buckled as that intersection billowed out, and then collapsed, engulfing the Outcasts in dust and debris, obscuring them from vision. More of the street began to collapse – years of neglect made the entire city structurally unsound, and a blast like the one Eagle Two had witnessed probably could've taken down every building in the city.

"Move up! Execute the survivors!" Riley called out, moving out of cover and directing his rifle towards the still-lingering dust cloud the C4 had produced.

"No contact," Joe Baylor said aloud.

"Obviously," Johann von Schenk mocked. Joe glared.

The trio reached the edge of the crater produced by the C4. The dust hovered over the hole, still remaining airborne. With as much caution as he could allow, Riley descended into the sewer and checked for signs of survivors. The first sign of life was an arm, severed from its body. Its power armor remained on the arm, indicating that it was one of the Outcasts. Another man was found, crushed under the debris, and a third was found with a street lamp impaling his chest _through_ his armor.

"Three dead!" Riley called out. He paused when he heard something hitting water. There was a grunt, and Riley turned about on his heels, swinging his rifle over and trying to triangulate the source of the sound. He approached a small opening in the debris that had collapsed into the sewers, and started up his flashlight. Dust still hung in the air, obscuring the light, but it was more visible than it had been.

There was a man in power armor, holding a handgun. Riley shouldered his rifle, and took aim. The man was furiously digging at his eyes with his free hand, moaning as he did so.

"Can't fucking see!" he said aloud. "Sammy? John? Guys, what the fuck happened?"

"Good night, motherfucker." Riley said, slowly squeezing the trigger on his rifle. There was a click – and nothing more. Swallowing, Riley turned the rifle over and pounded on the side, before opening and closing the bolt. He pulled the trigger again, yet still to no avail. "Fucking dust is like glue!"

The Outcast ceased rubbing his eyes, and squinted in Riley's direction. He leveled his handgun, and squeezed off three shots. Riley cussed and lifted himself off the ground, into the chamber that had formed from the C4's detonation. He unsheathed a Ka-bar style knife and dashed towards his foe, who again leveled the handgun and squeezed off two rounds. Both struck Riley, knocking the breath out of his chest. This did not, however, stop Riley from his charge, and he reached his foe as quickly with the bullets as we would have without. Trying not to waste a second, Riley angled his knife for the jugular vein of his enemy. As he dug the blade into the Outcast's neck, another shot rang out, again hitting Riley in the chest. There was an overwhelming sense of pain as Riley retrieved his blade. He crawled back out of the chamber, snatching up his flashlight but failing to retrieve the rifle he had dropped.

His wounds oozed. He was lucky the rounds had failed to hit any major vein or artery, or else he might be in danger of bleeding out. However, he was just as much in danger of dying of shock or infection if he didn't get to a medic quickly. And the medic had died a long time beforehand. He clutched to the wounds, and applied as much pressure as he could without hurting himself, a feat which, itself, seemed nearly impossible.

"What happened?" Johann asked as he pulled Riley out of the hole.

"Bastard got me," Riley said, pausing to breath. He coughed, hacking until blood came up in his spit. "Damn! I'll be back in a few minutes, Johann, I'm going to get a few stimpaks from the truck." He gritted his teeth and began what seemed like an odyssey back to the truck. Each step felt like a hard punch to the chest, but Riley continued on. Tristan Delacroix had also made it back to the truck, and was wrapping up his own wound.

"Shit," he said upon examination of his superior officer.

"Yeah, I know," Riley said, reaching for the first aid box. He opened the hatch and reached in, feeling about for a syrette, a concoction of stimulants that effectively sped up the user's metabolism on a local basis. That's what made it so effective at healing. It did not, however, remove the lead that might be lodged in the body, which can lead to a whole menagerie of other problems. But if it stopped the bleeding, it could wait.

He picked up one such syrette and uncapped it. He carefully guided the needle into the first wound until the thing could go no further. He gradually emptied the stimpak as he pulled it out of his chest, to spread it throughout the wound. He did the same for the other wound, and then Riley had Tristan wrap his torso in sterile bandages. He winced; stimpaks did nothing for pain. That was what morphine was for, and unfortunately morphine was much rarer than stimpaks, mostly because of the fact that it was usually stored in glass syrettes as opposed to the plastic and metal ones stimpaks came in. Made it easier to break morphine compared to stimpaks.

There was a racket of gunfire behind Tristan and Riley. The two turned about to see Johann and Joe dealing with the last Outcast, who had actually tried to surrender. Eagle Twenty-Four's demolitions expert began walking back towards the rest of his unit which was holed up just east of Fairfax. He nodded to Riley and Tristan.

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><p><strong>R&amp;R!<strong>


	9. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

**This is something I've been aching to do for a while now, to determine if it was feasible to create a fanfic based on pre-war Fallout universe life. I'm actually rather proud of this chapter, which is something I can hardly say for the majority of the rest.**

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><p><em>Sic Transit Gloria Mundi<em>

Skylar locked back the charging handle of his M199 'backtalker' assault rifle. The standard United States service rifle, rechambered for 6.8mm Remington by request. It was just five minutes into his first deployment into Manchuria as a part of the 16th Mechanized Infantry regiment, and already they were heading into a hot-zone, an area where Communist Chinese forces continued to put up heavy resistance. As anybody who read the newspaper stateside would know, no matter how hard they tried, the U.S. couldn't quite stamp out resistance, and this stubborn thorn in their paw kept them from making significant gains in China proper.

The Infantry Fighting Vehicle – an M70 Warthog – came to a halt, and there was a racket at the front of the vehicle as the driver and navigator exchanged heated words. Without warning, a rocket or missile struck the left side of the Warthog, just behind Skylar and his fireteam.

"Holy shit!" he cussed, amongst a loud murmur of worried soldiers. Like the others on his side, he'd been nearly thrown from his seat.

"What was that?" another greenhorn shouted towards the driver.

"Shut up and sit down!" the driver hollered back, hauling himself from his seat up into the turret which housed the 20mm autocannon that served as the Warthog's primary defense. He turned the turret in the direction of the missile's origin, and let loose with the gun, filling the IFV with a deafening racket. After several more seconds, the driver returned to his seat and opened up with the throttle.

"I swear to God," the man aside of Skylar said loudly, "these hardass vets won't tell us a damn thing!"

"I coulda sworn we was winnin' this war!" a scraggly, scrawny-looking soldier across from Skylar shouted.

"Shaddap!" the navigator screamed.

"I heard a lot about what the chinks're doing to our guys," the lone female on the craft said, "They torture and kill prisoners, the bastards."

"Not like what we do to them is any better," a scholarly-looking man said, adjusting the glasses which rested rather close to the tip of his nose. There was a near-unanimous hissing from the rest of the soldiers, who cussed him out as a 'commie-lover'. He seemed surprisingly calm for all the flak he was taking, sitting up straighter and with a look of contempt crossing his face. "Hey, believe what you want to! That's the glory of this great nation we serve. At least, it's supposed to be."

That was received with even more growling and hissing, and somebody threw their helmet at the man.

"Go to red! Disembarking in 20 seconds!" the driver hollered. Skylar checked his gear one final time; rifle, handgun, magazines, knife, rations, and all the menagerie of miscellaneous equipment the average rifleman carried into combat. He was third from the ramp, so he wasn't in immediate danger if they were getting dropped off in the midst of combat, but he would be unable to move if something happened and the others couldn't get out.

"Dropping the ramp!" the driver said, as the vehicle lurched to a stop. The rear door, the ramp, fell to the ground, letting in a flood of light. "Go, go!" The first fireteam exited the craft, rifles at the ready. Skylar lead his fireteam from the Warthog, and quickly analyzed the area. It was a valley, perhaps once lush and green, but torn apart by the Sino-American War. Craters effectively defined the landscape, with other M70 Warthogs traversing the land. Tunnel entrances were plainly visible, and were likely where the vehicle had been hit from.

For several seconds, everything was silent. Feeling a sense of security, the man with the glasses lit up a cigarette, puffing on it as he gradually relaxed. Skylar kept his head on a swivel, but allowed his rifle to shift from his shoulder to on his back. The First Lieutenant who commanded Skylar's platoon went from noncom to noncom, making sure everything had gone according to plan.

There was a whistle, and a bullet cracked past the Lieutenant. He reared back, and yelped.

"Oh, shots fired!" he cried. Without the slightest hesitation, Skylar and the rest of the platoon (and in fact the entire battalion) rearranged themselves to take aim at the area from whence the shot came.

"Anybody got contact?" one of the other soldiers called.

"Nothing yet!" another responded.

Skylar saw movement near one of the craters to his right, just within his periphal vision.

"Contact, three o'clock!" he shouted, swinging his rifle in that direction. It was a Chinese soldier wielding an RPK-93, a light machinegun variant of the Type 93 assault rifle that had replaced the AKM in the early 1990s. The man charged the weapon, and then opened fire on the 16th. Bullets whipped by every member of Skylar's fireteam. Along with the other men, Skylar opened fire on the machinegunner, unsuccessfully. Two out of the four men on Skylar's team were struck, and fell to the ground with what seemed to be superficial wounds.

"Hit the ground, you stupid fucks!" A ragged looking man wearing heavily worn combat armor and fatigues cried out, while taking shots at the machine gunner. A veteran if ever Skylar had seen one. Skylar dove into the nearest crater as bullets cut the air where he had been standing.

There was a large, ungodly cry from the tunnels which dotted the landscape, and without warning, what seemed like ten thousand Chinamen burst out of those tunnels.

"Contact, contact!" one of the others in the battalion shouted. The IFVs started opening fire, tearing gaps in the enemy ranks that were very quickly refilled by even more Chinamen.

"They're everywhere!" somebody else screamed. Skylar peered over the ridge formed by the crater, and propped his rifle up to fire. He lined up the sights on one Chinaman, and squeezed off a burst of four rounds. The man, lacking in armor, instantaneously dropped. Skylar swapped targets and again brought down another Chinese soldier.

"Hold them back!" Skylar heard. The IFVs roared, but even their deadly anti-personnel shells could not stem the tide of the Chinese, who had made the region so hard-fought to begin with.

The veteran soldiers seemingly appeared out of nowhere, guns blazing. There were very few of them, but what few who had survived the combat in the region were worth as much as an entire squad of greenhorns. They were experts at decision-making, and prioritized high-danger targets over the regulars, and were able to swap targets much faster than any of the greenhorns. They knew what to bring and what not to bring, and wore only the bare essentials: their armor was cut down, without pauldrons or skirts, protecting only the vital organs and keeping mobility up. They often went without rations, keeping theirs stored in mounds near the headquarters of the region. They fed off of the fat of the land, which kept them much leaner than anybody who wasn't on the frontlines.

However, even those experienced soldiers weren't able to hold back the Chinese, and soon enough they were in close contact with the 16th Mechanized. The IFVs couldn't afford to fire without the risk of hitting their own troops, which made them, essentially, good for nothing but cover from the Type 93s. Without this asset, the Americans found themselves on the retreat. Skylar continued to hunker down with his fireteam. While the platoon medic took care of the injured, Skylar and the other unwounded soldier kept up fire on the Chinese. However, it became evident very quickly that they would be unable to continue, as Skylar blew through his fifth magazine, leaving just two, alongside the four handgun magazines he still had.

A Chinese soldier, an officer wielding a straight sword and a Type 17, came full-charge towards Skylar and the other unwounded soldier. He fired his handgun three times, each round striking home on the medic, who succumbed to his wounds instantly. He was very fast, running at a spring the entire time, until he finally reached Skylar and the other greenhorn. With a simple thrusting motion, the unwounded soldier found himself with an iron blade piercing his chest through at an obtuse angle. His scream was muffled by blood flowing through his ruptured lungs, but that wasn't the worst of Skylar's worries.

The M199 had jammed at the least opportune time, dust caking up inside the bolt housing and clogging up the gas system. The Chinese officer didn't bother to retrieve his sword, focusing solely on Skylar with his Type 17. Skylar, with almost preternatural reflexes, tossed his rifle aside and sidestepped the first two rounds from the Chinese handgun, unsheathing the combat knife he had been issued. The virgin blade gleamed as Skylar lunged at the Chinaman. Using his left hand to push the Type 17 aside, he went for the carotid artery of the Chinese officer. The Chinese officer, however, was very stubborn, and with what seemed like ease, he turned Skylars blade aside, before subsequently striking the American twice in the neck, and following up the counter with a quick kick to the chest. Skylar staggered, but instead of worrying about wounds, he ducked and rolled out of the way of yet more Chinese pistol rounds.

As he rolled, he unholstered his own handgun, the N99 10mm pistol, which was based upon the venerable 6520 series of Colt handgun. He unloaded two of his own rounds at the Chinese officer – both of which struck home, one hitting the man's sternum, and the other hitting his neck. Skylar stood over the wounded Chinaman, and unloaded another round into the man's head. He checked the wounded medic and other fireteam member, both of whom were confirmed dead. He took their dog tags, retrieved his rifle, and began at a trot back towards the rest of his battalion. Four Lockreed P18s streaked overhead, delivering canisters of napalm on the Chinese forces, to almost no avail.

* * *

><p>Skylar felt betrayed by his country, betrayed by his leaders and his brethren. The battle where the 16th was smashed was hardly fault of his own, yet to preserve the image of the politicians who had ordered the confrontation to begin with, Skylar, and many of the other survivors of the incident, were dishonorably discharged from service, branded traitors. Some had even been sentenced to prison, with Skylar and several others being sentenced to death row. He had fought, bled, and suffered for his country, as had many of the survivors of the 16th, yet somehow the politicians were capable of stirring up hatred for them in such a way that he could never be acknowledged by his own family. His wife had deserted him, his parents disowned him, and his only child refused to speak to him. It was a situation no man on Earth would ever want to experience, yet there it was.<p>

In his cell, bunked in with another survivor of the battle, he contemplated death and life, and how God had deserted all of the men who fought for America. How it was not Skylar who was the traitor, but every politician who walked on American soil. Even the President had nothing to say to the 16th. All of the men who died there, they were heroes, but if you lived through it you were a traitor. There had been no trial, no jury of his peers, just a sentence handed to him by a man in a black suit. The DC SWAT had been called in to arrest him, when they would be better off actually serving their country by ousting the bastards who would call those who suffer 'traitors'.

But all of that was useless ponderings by Skylar. Indeed, only one thing could change his fate, and that was some godforsaken, unknown organization who might swoop in last second, wipe his name from the records, and give him a chance to redeem himself and the other survivors of the 16th.

"Skylar Ericsson, you've got a visitor." The warden said, breaking Skylar's train of thought. He rose, and followed the Warden through the prison halls – the military prison west of DC, Fort Independence (how ironic the name was, Skylar kept thinking), was almost devoid of life minus those who were a part of the 16th. Across the desk in the meeting room, where the accused could speak to loved ones, was a man Skylar had never seen before.

He was clad in a navy-blue suit, with a military-style haircut and rough stubbly beard on his chiseled jaw. He held a cigar at the corner of his mouth, smoking it slowly and relishing the taste.

"Hello, Skylar." He said, gesturing to the seat across the table.

"Who are you?" Skylar asked, wary.

"A friend." The man said, before formally introducing himself, "I am Kyle Loftus, First Lieutenant and agent of the Office of Strategic Services. Research branch."

Skylar took a seat, and slumped over.

"So, what do you want?"

"I heard about how you and the rest of the 16th got shafted by the government. I'm here to offer… redemption. Of a sort."

"How so, Lieutenant?" Skylar inquired.

"Well, you get to live, and you help our country."

"Didn't I do enough 'helping' as is? I almost lost my head from enemy fire."

"I agree that you did, and it's upsetting to myself and the rest of the OSS that you and the rest of the 16th were so mistreated by the politicians." Kyle agreed. He continued, "However, the only way we can help you is to wipe your name from the records. We stage your execution, but you've already waltzed out the back door."

"So I become nameless?"

"Yep."

"How does that help?"

"Well, Skylar, you will have died. With death comes reprieve, so by default all charges against you are dropped upon your supposed death."

The proposition was causing a conflict in Skylar. He would do anything to reverse his fortunes, yet what was he getting? Swapping one prison for another, where they might do borderline torture tests on Skylar wasn't a very pleasing proposition. But if it cleared his name, Skylar was willing.

"Fine."

"Tomorrow, you'll be brought to a secret location west of DC, and there you'll stay. You'll have some privileges – for the most part you can roam the complex, and you can leave with supervision – but do not be mistaken, you become property of the OSS, and we may very well kill you." Skylar was silent. He acknowledged the possibility, but wouldn't think about it.

"Okay."

"You will be assigned to cryogenics. A few others from the 16th will be there along with you." Kyle said. He stood, and extended a hand to Skylar. The two men shook hands, and Skylar was escorted back to his cell.

* * *

><p>The OSS was certainly far more sympathetic to the survivors of the 16th, moreso than anybody Skylar personally knew. Like the normal armed forces, the OSS was very intent on serving and protecting the nation – from within, however, rather than without. Their methodology was also far different from that of the military: they used covert tactics, and acted almost like a secret police force. They also didn't answer directly to anybody in the government, which gave them an amount of freedom that was entirely unheard of elsewhere in the United States. They did what the Coordinator of Operations thought was best, and as a civilian, he answered to neither the president nor the military chain of command.<p>

They afforded the 16th what little luxury they could, given the circumstances. Skylar paid as much mind as he could, given that he was usually separated from his suite and his possessions. Indeed, most of his time was spent in the CryoLab, just as Loftus had promised. It wasn't so bad; most of what he went through were just physical exams.

"Okay Skylar," Sheila Phelps said as she pivoted towards Skylar. "You went through the Cryogenic stabilizer solution rather well. We've never had a single person have so much and live through it." Skylar frowned visibly.

"How many people have died doing this?" he asked, as Sheila took the opportunity to force a thermometer in his mouth. She wrote something down on the clipboard she always carried before responding.

"Oh, just a couple dozen." She retrieved the thermometer and, happy with the results, threw the device into a hazmat bin. "Breathe in deep for me, please." She said as she placed a stethoscope disk under his shirt. He did so, and she continually shifted the disk around.

"So what are my odds of living through this whole ordeal, in that case?" Skylar asked after Sheila placed her stethoscope on a nearby counter.

"Not likely, I'm afraid. Go stand by the scale, please." Her voice move to an ominous monotone as she said it, and Skylar couldn't be sure if she was fucking with him or not. Regardless, he obeyed and stood underneath the height scale – though it wasn't likely he'd grown or shrunk much, being an adult of 29 and all.

After several more tests, during which Skylar had quieted from uncertainty, he was free to go about his business. He didn't want to do much, however; he'd seen the entire complex, however large it may be, and he wasn't allowed to leave without two men breathing down his neck the entire time. He also wasn't allowed to leave for more than three hours at a time, barely giving him time to go anywhere. The worst part was all of the people who still recognized him and berated him for cowardice. It saddened him to have watched so many make the ultimate sacrifice, to have fought alongside such brave folks, and to return home to a populace that neither understood, nor particularly cared. Like a whore, behind the pretty face was a nation full of vices and corruption.

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><p>Lukas Sigurdsson watched Skylar from the observation chamber. Two medical personnel also watched, wondering what had come over Lukas' adjutant.<p>

"He's been getting worse," Lukas said quietly. "Every day, he seems to space out for minutes at a time, and it's beginning to interfere with operations."

"He seems to be suffering from some sort of depression, or anxiety," the first physician, an ex-Brotherhood scribe, John Jameson, who had deserted after seeing his compatriots executing Enclave civilians with no mercy or remorse.

"No stressors," the second one, Gregory More, commented. He had been with the Enclave since he was born. "These episodes seem completely random, and even occur when he's locked up."

"True," the Brotherhood physician agreed.

"Lukas, you found him. You said he was a pre-war soldier?" More asked.

"Yeah, cryogenically frozen. The other cryochambers had been breached, all except for Skylar's." Lukas confirmed.

"Has he ever told you about what life was like for him?"

"Only that he was a pre-war soldier who fought in Manchuria. He muttered something about being a traitor, but that was it."

"Did you pry?"

"Not much," Lukas admitted, before asking a question of his own. "Is it possible for him to recover?"

"Maybe," the Jameson chimed in, "but we'd need a positive I.D. on his condition. If we try treating for the wrong thing, it may just make the situation worse." There was a brief silence as Skylar stood and moved around in the isolation chamber, blankly staring at the wall whenever he came to one.

"Lukas," More asked, "were there any files on him in the medical database?" Lukas' eyebrow rose.

"I never bothered to look. Why?"

"If he was suffering from something from before the war," Jameson finished for More, "it may be recurring now."

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><p><strong>Please R&amp;R!<strong>


	10. Attack on Fort Independence

**By far the chapter I have worked hardest on yet. It's MASSIVE, so PLEASE R&R.**

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><p><em>Ultima Ratio <em>

Riley McAllister and Eagle Two approached the campfire several of the other Eagles had started on the edge of Fairfax as dusk passed and night set upon the Enclave remnants. In the morning, all but one of the Eagle units would descend upon Fort Independence from all sides, to eradicate the Brotherhood Outcasts and secure a new, permanent base of operations – a lynchpin to Lukas' plans.

Nobody spoke; one man held a cast-iron pot over the trashcan flame, which produced the mild sizzling noise that filled in the vacuum of sound that otherwise existed. Everybody but the wasters who had been picked up by individual Eagle units could recognize each other, for before the fall of the Enclave they had all been a part of the same subsect of the Enclave – the restorationists.

Riley took a seat near the fire. After some time, he removed his pack and lay back, placing the pack just below his neck as a makeshift pillow. It worked, even if it wasn't the most comfortable support. The others of Eagle Two went about their own things, before finally also laying and trying to get some sleep. Not since the group had been living in Raven Rock had they had a comfortable sleep whatsoever, minus the occasional stop off in an abandoned building. But, they could deal, as they had been ever since they got involved with Lukas Sigurdsson.

* * *

><p>One of the other Eagles – Ophelia Chekhov, of Eagle Seven – shook Riley awake. It was still dark, and upon examination of his wristwatch, Riley could see it was not even 4:00 o'clock. He felt uneasy rising as he did, because of both grogginess from lack of sleep, and of the impending day. Tristan, so Ophelia had said, had been awake all the night, and was scared shitless. Joe Baylor, on the other hand, had fallen into an almost comatose state, hinting at the sleep deprivation he'd suffered through for an entire week – every night, he'd offered to stand watch all night, and it had finally gotten to him. He was a little better for it, but he hated being awakened from such a deep, luscious sleep as had befallen him. Johann von Schenk had had it easiest. He was a fast sleeper, but a light one; it took almost nothing to awaken him, and his disneed for sleep always amazed his comrades. Riley thought he would make a better overnight watchman than Baylor.<p>

The groups assembled. The Eagles were passing around a set of binoculars to stare at Fort Independence, and making some light casual conversation as they did so. It was, however, an incredibly tense mood. Everybody knew they might die: it was a frontal assault. The chance of dying was multiplied by about ten, by Baylor's reckoning. The spyglasses finally reached Riley, and he held onto them for quite a while. He brought them to his eyes, staring at the field they had to cross – a field of asphalt and concrete, bordered in by some buildings. At least a thousand feet to the gates, and then another two hundred to the nearest building. The Eagles stayed back only to prevent discovery, even though it was likely the Outcasts found the disappearance of their sentries suspicious.

Independence was divided into several quarters and buildings. There were large gaps of space; what had once been a park for outdoor recreation, several roads, and several parking lots. Closest to Riley and the Eagles on his side were the northern barracks: a set of identical-looking, three-story-tall brick-and-mortar buildings that looked as if they should have been only temporary as a more permanent facility was installed. The other sections that Riley could see had a similar appearance: multiple identical buildings within the same region, for the same purpose. All of the sections were divided by those roads and parking lots.

The apparitions who loitered around were what terrified Riley, and likely many of the other Eagles; Brotherhood Outcasts. In the area of the barracks alone, Riley could swear he saw at least fifty. Only a few of them wore power armor, however; the gate guards. And at that, their power armor was outdated and inferior compared to the Brotherhood proper's own – T-45d as opposed to T-51b. What they all had in common, however, was their affinity for energy-based weaponry: what a 5.56mm round did when compared to a bolt of plasma was like comparing a firecracker to a nuclear bomb; plasma could melt away an entire person, a 5.56 could not. Riley finished looking, and passed the binoculars further down the line.

Joe Baylor didn't look very uneasy about the whole situation, not much to the surprise of his comrades considering his disposition towards fighting, but he remained curious.

"What'd you see?" he asked soon after Riley had passed on the binoculars.

"Maybe forty, fifty Outcasts," Riley said.

"Were they armed?" Baylor asked, receiving a glare that might've melted steel from his leader.

"Think on it for a few seconds." Riley said. Baylor said nothing thereafter.

There was a commotion to Eagle Two's right, cheering and shouting. Riley and his group tried to see over the crowd of other Eagle units, and that's when Riley caught sight of somebody. The man was about of average height, with a lighter shade of brown hair cut in a military style, and pale white skin. What separated him from the other Eagles, however, was his garb; instead of pre-war civilian clothing worn underneath cut-down combat armor, he wore a black trenchcoat. It was somebody Riley'd never thought he'd see – his former commander at Project Purity, Lukas Sigurdsson; leader of the New Eagles. He was visiting the Eagles prior to the attack, and, dangerous though the idea was, would stay to supervise the overall battle. He had even brought a whole staff of radio operators to help coordinate operations.

After some time conversing with the leaders of each Eagle unit, Lukas reached Riley. Riley, in respect, snapped a salute.

"At ease, Riley." Lukas said, eyebrows raised. "You and your unit are sappers. There's an opening right up ahead near the fence leading to a passageway which, if the blueprints are right, will lead straight into Henry Casdin's abode. Before heading up, there's a subbasement accessible from the same staircase leading into the central hub. If you don't want to be gunned down by the Outcasts' automated defenses, you'd be wise to destroy the generators in that subbasement. Then head up into the building proper and start sweeping it. Most of the Outcasts will be too involved in the fighting on the surface that they won't notice you guys breaking in and killing all their scientists and scribes." Lukas waited for a second. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Riley said.

"Good. Be ready, as soon as dawn breaks, we attack."

"Understood, sir."

Riley and his unit stood around following their leader's visit, silence amongst them. They knew what they had to do, and one way or another, they'd do it – or die trying. In this case, it was most logical to use fire and advance tactics rather than how they'd been handling combat since they'd gotten involved with the Eagles – after all, it was basically a dead-run towards the fort, and there'd be a hell of resistance as soon as the Outcasts realized what was going on.

Riley, however, was unperturbed; he'd survived headlong rushes into enemy fire before. Granted, he _was_ wearing power armor and wielding a plasma rifle, but the same concept applied. He flattened out a fold in the bandage underneath his garb and armor. He'd gotten shot, and it was taking its toll; every move he made ached quite a bit. Not cripplingly so, but it was a pain that was still present. The stimpaks were good at what they did, but some morphine would make everybody's day better.

The sun began to break over the horizon behind the Eagles. All of the people around Riley and Eagle Two were shifting about uneasily, aware of the chances of failure. It was a high-risk, high-reward situation for certain, though; Lukas' entire plan hinged on blocking in and squeezing the life out of the Brotherhood of Steel proper.

"Advance!" somebody called out. Several Eagles took hesitant steps forwards. Riley locked back the charging handle on his rifle, which he had cleaned the day beforehand.

"Let's go. Finger four." Riley said. Baylor took up a place several feet behind and to the left of Riley. Johann was equidistant on Riley's right, and Tristan last on the far right. They started to advance up the street at a trot. Unit by unit, the other Eagles began to advance as well, everybody holding their fire until they were fired upon to maintain the element of surprise. The injuries Riley had suffered were making it hard to breathe; he found himself breathing harder very quickly, and he lost sensation in his face and hands – no, not entirely true; it was more of a prickling sensation. Everything seemed suddenly surreal, and he could hear his heart pounding. The pounding coincided with a pulsing pain in the frontal part of his head, and it was making it difficult to concentrate on the tasks set forth to Eagle Two.

Focusing his vision on the opening in the street – a caved-in sewer pipe, from the looks of it – he readjusted himself. Every step he took closer to the Outcasts, the more likely it became that they would open fire. On all sides, Eagle units took up positions in the buildings across the street from Fort Independence, and waited for the gunfire to start. A laser beam suddenly cracked by Riley's chest. Startled, he reared back.

"Contact!" he shouted. He felt woozy, and collapsed to the ground; not from any injury therein sustained, but from the injuries he had sustained during the skirmish in Fairfax: that, alongside the malnourishment and lack of sleep, caused him to lose his footing. His rifle skittered several feet out to Riley's right as the others of Eagle Two scattered, using long-neglected cars as cover. Joe Baylor, exasperated, returned fire, and the element of surprise was lost. Within seconds, the entire perimeter of Fort Independence was ablaze in fire and return fire between the Eagles and Outcasts. Riley lay still, trying reconcile his senses and thoughts with his physical body. It was likely that both the Outcasts and Eagles thought the man was dead.

Riley himself believed it for several seconds. Riley could barely hear the racketing of the confrontation through the blood pulsing in his ears. However, his wounds had not come unbounded, and it was merely neglect of his body that caused him to fail in the line of duty. He closed his eyes. The conflicting thoughts and perceptions of the events continuing on around him made him tired, and inflicted upon the leader of Eagle Two a splitting headache.

_Fuck,_ he thought. That was always the first thought in his mind whenever something wrong happened. Whether it be getting shot or losing a few caps, the expletive served as a good catch-all for the feelings he couldn't otherwise express. _I wonder if this is what dying is like._ He had never experienced a fainting spell before hand: passing out, yes, but that was sleeping. Fainting as he did was nearly like a waking sleep: in and of itself, a hell.

But his faculties returned as his senses discerned the importance, and his muscles responded to his thoughts. He raised himself up slightly as if doing push-ups. Baylor glanced at Riley. He was shocked to see his leader move again, but did not hesitate. In spite of all the fire that had broken out – many more Outcasts had poured out of the inner sanctum of the Fort – Joe sprinted to Riley and grabbed a hold of his leader's collar. Riley, armor included, weighed something like 250 pounds, which made dragging him a task to be reckoned with. However, Joe did it – awkward though it may have been – , and Riley was propped up against the car which Joe had been using as cover, on the left side of the street.

Riley was still feeling that odd surreal perception of the world. Things seemed blurred, dull, nondescript. He lightly grasped Joe's pant leg.

"Joe, you got any Steady?" he asked, between breaths. Joe placed his rifle on the ground and dropped his pack on the ground, kneeling down to avoid fire. He dug, looking for the drug in question. One of the Eagles who had occupied an adjacent office building fired a rocket towards the Outcasts. In return, the Outcasts focused much of their fire on the window from which the round had come from.

Joe brought out the makeshift drug. The Enclave had continued producing such classified combat drugs well into the 23rd century, and the process was well-known to most of the older Eagles. It was basically Methamphetamine, but with a slightly dulled effect to the raw produce. He dug in his pocket for a lighter to heat the bottle in which the Steady was held. A smoke was produced from the mouthpiece. He placed the mouthpiece in Riley's mouth.

"Breathe in deep," he instructed, and Riley followed. The mixture of drugs immediately sharpened Riley's senses. The blur was gone, the surrealness replaced by the harsh reality of what was going on around them: four Eagle units had already been wiped out.

Riley's rifle was still in the middle of the road. With newfound strength, Riley hopped up.

"Cover me!" he commanded as he sprinted towards the empty center of the street. Bullets and plasma and energy tore past him, one bullet even striking Riley in the chestplate of his armor. With rifle in hand, he redirected himself towards the secondary entrance of the fort. "Let's go!" he shouted, "We have to get this done!"

He started off on a sprint, Joe following close after, and the Johann after him. Tristan took the longest, hesitating every time a round came anywhere near his body. But all four made it to the entrance. They were close enough to Fort Independence that they could hear the Outcasts shouting at one another: "Keep the guns up!" one of them shouted. Another expressed worry over the infiltrating Eagle Two. Still another cried out in anguish from wounds sustained.

But Riley and Eagle Two had no time to dwell. Riley took point, bringing out an old Government-issue flashlight. There were no lights in the tunnel, and as such Eagle Two moved cautiously towards what was supposed to be an opening leading into a staircase, which would bring them up to the main hall of Fort Independence. No Outcast presence was encountered whatsoever in the tunnel itself. There was one man, and unarmored Outcast, who stood watch at the opening to the staircase. Or rather, sat, with a cigarette between his lips. Riley was the one who took the shot which killed the man.

"Let's hit the subbasement first," Joe reminded. Riley nodded.

"Alright. Tristan, you keep watch."

"Sure thing." Tristan said. In truth, he was relieved that he wouldn't be throwing himself into the maw that could be awaiting the group.

Riley and the other two Eagles proceeded down into the subbasement. It was a small room, with a fusion generator dominating the central portion, and a series of smaller generators surrounding it. On one side was a dormant computer resting on a desk. The chair for it was gone, likely the same as the guard's chair.

Joe activated the terminal, and very quickly cracked the security on the terminal. Within seconds, he was able to access almost everything that had been uploaded to the database which the Outcasts had created. However, that was not what Joe was looking for. No, the final option on the list displayed was 'Generator status.' Checking it, it was obviously on. With a very quick motion, Joe deactivated the thing. It hummed to death, its lights slowly dimming. Replacing them were a series of emergency lights which were placed strategically – the intermediate platforms of the staircase, one in every room, one in each hallway. These were diesel-powered lights, however; everything else that relied on the generator was dead. Which, if Lukas was correct, included the Outcasts' automated defense system – the interior of the Outcast fort was now defenseless.

Riley, Joe, and Johann returned to Tristan, who had picked up the dead man's cigarette and was happily puffing away on the half-used thing. Riley lead the way up the staircase and into the main building. He kept his rifle at the ready, and for good reason: just as he started up, three Outcasts – luckily unarmored – made an appearance. Riley reflexively held down the trigger, and managed to kill all three without them being able to return the favor.

There was a click as the last round left the chamber. Riley locked back the charging handle and depressed the magazine catch. The empty magazine slid out of the well, and he placed it carefully into his backpack before unveiling a fresh magazine. He pressed it up into the well until he felt the catch activating. With a flourish, Riley smacked the charging handle downwards and it sprang forwards, new round in the chamber.

Joe checked his own magazine thereafter, but found it still had rounds left. As he replaced the magazine, the trio entered the basement of the central Fort Independence building. There were two Outcasts this time, scribes moving what they deemed valuable materials into a safe spot. Unfortunately for them, the safe spot wasn't, as the Eagles' presence indicated. One of the two dove for cover, unholstering an N99 handgun, while the other stood, stupefied by the Eagles breaching the basement. His glance swapped between the automated turrets, which had died, and the Eagles. Joe delivered the killing blow that time, firing two rounds at the scribe. The man seemed to trip backwards as the rounds burrowed into his head. A sharp stench suddenly filled the room as the scribe's bowels let loose.

"God damn!" Riley could hear the other scribe shout. Riley and Joe moved up, hugging opposite sides of the room. There was a large wall of crates separating them from their target. Joe was the first to reach an angle where he could see the scribe. The man was short and plump, with a red-flushed face. He wore round-rimmed glasses that complimented his overall appearance. But in spite of his rather childlike proportions, he knew how to use his handgun – perhaps not very well, as the first discharge struck Joe in the right shoulder as opposed to anywhere life threatening. Riley, quickly, used his rifle and got the scribe into a choke hold. The man dropped his handgun and struggled against Riley, to no avail. Joe, anger welling up, unsheathed a combat knife and went for his foe's neck. Blood sprayed out like a fountain from the left side of the scribe's neck, coating Riley's arm in crimson.

"God dammit," Riley cussed, "Why did you have to do that, Joe?" Riley asked, trying to get the blood off of his arm.

"The motherfucker shot me." Baylor retorted. Johann finally rejoined the others.

"Can we get out of here?" he asked, "the stench is going to make me puke."

Riley shook his head. "Yeah. We need to break up their defense if we're going to have any chance at this."

"How exactly are we going to do that?" Baylor asked.

"I'm open to suggestions." Riley put forth.

"They must have something big in this place. A nuclear catapult?"

"That might work. A few micronukes, and we could put a pretty nice dent in their forces."

In agreement, the Eagles entered the next stairwell, up to the first floor. Opening it as gently as possible, Riley was met by several Outcasts trotting back and forth, delivering messages or otherwise trying to aid in stemming the Eagles. Riley kicked the door open to give as much effect as possible. It probably wasn't the best idea, however, for the Outcasts very quickly recovered from their surprise, and began to fire off their handguns at the Eagles. Riley must have sustained ten rounds from that engagement as he gunned down more unarmored foes, and Joe even more.

"Shit!" Riley cussed.

"Yeah, well, you should've done it the way we were taught." Joe smarted.

"Well I'm sorry I was trying to shock them."

"I'm sorry too! Christ, I can only guess how many rounds are embedded in my flesh now because of you."

There was an eerie silence as Joe and Riley continued on, clearing room after room. It was only fifteen minutes later that the two noticed the absence of their comrade, Johann. Although they had made considerable headway into the second floor, the two sprinted back towards the lobby to find their friend. He lay there, writhing, unspeaking. Riley grabbed Johann's jaw, trying to get a better view of what had happened. Then it became obvious as he saw the wound just below the left temple of Johann. There was a decently small hole, probably a .22 round, but even that tiny round could do unimaginable damage if it landed in the right – or perhaps, wrong – place. Johann was already gone; his mind was simply firing off impulses in confusion. It would not be long before the rest of his body shut down. Riley looked to Joe, who was scowling.

"Good God." He said simply after several seconds of silence. Riley shook his head. If it hadn't been for that stupid decision, the Eagle might not have died. The door could've deflected the fatal shot. But what was done is done, and Riley knew that better than most could claim. He checked for something of personal value to Johann – a picture of his parents, an engraved dagger – and placed the momentos in his pack.

"Let's keep on," Riley said after a silent prayer. The duo returned up the stairs, a new disliking of the Outcasts settling within the two. The steady was beginning to fade, but it didn't make his senses too much less sharp – at least, he wasn't numb the way he had been at the beginning of the battle. The rest of the fight within the main building seemed like a cakewalk after Johann's death, however – not because Johann somehow made the fight inherently more difficult so much as Riley was being more vengeful. He fired at least one and a half as many rounds into his foe as he had been doing, which ensured the victims died on the first go instead of continuing to live and therefore pose a threat to Riley and Joe.

Protector Casdin, however, was nowhere to be found. In his office at the top of the central building, it was obvious that Casdin had made the place his residency. There was evidence everywhere. But the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

"He's probably out leading his troops." Joe remarked. Riley nodded. It seemed reasonable enough. How could he have expected to simply waltz in and kill the leader?

But that wasn't the greatest of his worries: he had left his radio at his camp. He had no idea how the battle was going, but he needed to complete his task. And Joe provided the means to do so.

"Come here!" the subordinate man shouted from a different room. It was a lab, with a fully-assembled nuclear catapult next to a disassembled one. There were two boxes full of micronukes. Joe was the one who carried the catapult out, and Riley carried a single box of micronukes – the two used an emergency exit onto the top of the building, where Joe assembled the nuclear catapult and adjusted the sights. From that vantage point, Riley could see the course the battle had taken: to the west, there had been several breakthroughs, but the Eagles got bogged down just inside the Fort. To the north and east, the battle remained as it had when it initiated: a struggle for the gates. To the south, the Outcasts had actually succeeded in pushing the Eagles away from the gates.

The central building was also the perfect place to set up the catapult: it was taller than the rest of the buildings by a good margin, and with proper aiming, the duo could make good use of the catapult.

"Alright, Joe, let's focus on dislodging the Outcasts to the east." He brought up an old-style spy scope. "See that platoon of Outcasts there? In the parking lot amongst the cars?"

"Yes." Joe said, swinging the catapult that way. He roughly estimated the distance to and from, and Riley placed a micronuke on the catapult.

"Fire at will!" Riley instructed. Joe did as he was told, and fired off the catapult for the first time. The micronuke spiraled through the air like a football, and landed directly within the platoon huddling down in the cars. The explosion was massive by any measure. Though not the size of a proper nuclear weapon – no, not even a fraction thereof – it was able to engulf the parking lot completely in the blast. The cars in the parking lot all shifted away from the epicenter, and several bodies were tossed about. Two Eagle units made their way into the breach.

Riley scanned the horizon. The west gate had several contingency positions for Outcasts, sandbag emplacements. They were obvious targets, and their destruction would certainly improve the Eagles' chances of success.

"Over there, west." Riley instructed.

"Sandbags?"

"Yeah." Again, Joe loaded another micronuke into the catapult, and let loose with it. The sandbags virtually dissolved from the blast, and those that weren't torn asunder were tossed aside. Like what had happened with the eastern parking lot, the Eagles flooded into the gates.

"Good effect!" Riley said, patting Joe on the back. "Alright, focus on the south now. Break up their little party on the street."

"Sure thing." For a third time, Joe repeated the loading and firing procedure after adjusting his aim. The round landed canted to the left of the group, but it was no less powerful for its slight inaccuracy; those Outcasts who had survived were killed by advancing Eagle units.

"Alright, let's shift this thing up north." Riley remarked. He carried the box of micronukes to the other end of the rook, and aided Joe in carrying the catapult over. The north gate was the obvious largest, and had a contingent of Outcasts to match. "Place a round in that pillbox just behind the gate."

"I'll do it." He lobbed a micronuke towards the Outcast hard point. It over-shot, and struck the half-open gate. "Shit!" he cussed. Using the old Kentucky windage technique, he adjusted his shot: down and west. He fired off another round. This time, it struck directly overtop of the pillbox, which seemingly disappeared.

Just as the duo was celebrating, something crashed against the emergency exit door. Riley, rifle in hand, trained his sights on the door. The second crash broke the door in half, the non-hinged portion flying well off of the roof. Two Outcast paladins, clad in T-45d armor.

"Joe, get to cover!" Riley shouted as he vaulted over a set of heating pipes. One of the Outcasts wielded a light machinegun. Bullets tore by Riley, before the Outcast adjusted his aim towards Joe. The rounds tore through the other Eagle's back. In response, Riley cried out, "No!"

He stood in the open and pulled off a dozen rounds out of his magazine towards the paladin. Although it staggered him, none of the rounds penetrated the armor. The two advanced, laying down yet more suppressive fire on Riley. Joe dared not move for fear of death. He could plainly feel the difference between the cap guns the unarmored Outcasts wielded and the 7.62mm rounds that had just broken up his back and legs.

"Come and get me, you bastards!" Riley shouted from behind a vent. The two paladins continued to advance. The one with the machinegun continued to provide suppressing fire as the two walked. However, just as they seemed likely to round the corner of the vent and kill Riley and Joe, there was a clattering of steps up the stairs and over the roof: it was Tristan, having heard the micronukes going off. He looked shocked by the sight of the Paladins, and Joe lying bloody on the ground. However, he wasted no time in unsheathing his own combat knife, and went on a dead sprint towards the machinegun-wielding paladin.

Once he was within five feet, Tristan leapt. With his left arm, he clutched his foe's head, prompting the man to drop the machinegun. The paladin staggered, trying to pull Tristan away from his armor. However, Tristan was quick to dig the knife in underneath the back of the power armor's helmet. With a loud thud, the paladin fell, pinning Tristan underneath – at least 700 pounds of armor and cadaver. The other paladin, whose reaction time was obviously very slow, took aim at Tristan, who vainly unholstered a handgun and popped off several rounds towards the paladin. But it was not all for naught. Riley imitated Tristan's technique, except that he went for the right side of the neck instead of the base of the skull. It was just as quick, but easier to pull off.

This time, as well, Riley ensured the paladin fell to the side instead of landing upon and pinning him. With some effort, Riley freed Tristan as well, and the two propped the bloody and injured Joe up on the vent. Joe's eyes were wide, and fluttered back and forth between the other two Eagles.

"Fucking A', that hurt." He said after several seconds as Riley dug through his pack for morphine and a stimpak. Riley produced the metal vial which contained the stimpak medicine, and uncapped the needle. He turned Joe onto his back and examined the wounds. There were six in total, each one with a terrible entrance wound. It was the small amount of ceramic on the Eagle's back that had saved him from even more terrible exit wounds. But it was the hydrostatic shock that worried Riley the most. He applied the stimpack to the wounds, and then used a roll of sterile bandages to, with the help of Tristan, cover over the wounds and keep them from festering while the stimpak worked. He uncapped the glass vial of morphine and looked for a decent-sized vein in Joe's arm. When he found one, he jabbed the needle into the arm and applied the entire vial: it was likely what caused Joe to black out that first time. In the intervening time between when Joe passed out and when he would wake up, the Eagles successfully captured, killed, or routed any remaining Outcast resistance on the Fort grounds.

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><p><strong>Finally, this is what I've been leading up to for a while now - next up is stamping out the Outcasts in Arlington.<strong>


	11. The Knights of Saint Mary, Part 1

**Wow, that was an incredibly long and unproductive hiatus. Figured I'd start out on a different note this time around.**

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><p><em>The Knights of Saint Mary, Part 1<em>

A child sat on the asphalt, huddled over something. His thin, grimy black hair was disheveled, baked from years of exposure to the elements. Every few seconds, one could hear him laugh as he manipulated whatever it was he was entranced by.

A raven descended upon the boy. Even from as far away as a half-mile – Emmittsburg, specifically – one could hear the conflagration between the two. The boy's screaming as he was torn apart in a flurry of beak and talons, the Raven's disgruntled, annoyed squawking as it performed its necessary task. It was a horrendous racket, but most paid little attention to it; few had even known the boy was there, even fewer had made an attempt at contact with him.

Johnson, one of the few survivors of the Eagle group who had come close to killing Elder Lyons, kicked at the bird, who squawked, but quickly flew away.

"This is godawful," Francesco remarked, inspecting the mutilated corpse of the child.

"You don't say?" Preston spat. "Some kid, all alone out here in the wasteland. Where are his parents, or friends?"

"There's a lack of human compassion nowadays." Johnson explained, his own views of the world coming into play. "I'd bet, if we could just find it in ourselves to help one another out, we may not be at each others' throats half the time."

"Stow it, man." Preston said, scratching his roughly-shaven chin.

"Maybe we ought to bury him." Francesco wondered aloud.

Preston pursed his lips, then slung his rifle behind his back and got out his canteen. It was hot, and all three men were sweating like dogs. There was a lack of clean water going around, aside of Project Purity and the Brotherhood of Steel's extortion of the native population using said water. Unfortunately, Preston had nary three ounces of fresh water left in his canteen, and when he went to press the bottle to his lips, he found it was barely enough to refresh his lips, let alone quench that undying thirst that came with the Nuclear Apocalypse. Consistent, low-level radiation hardly helped in that regard, either.

"I don't think we have time enough to spare." Preston remarked, placing his canteen back in his pack.

"Yeah," Johnson agreed. "Longer we spend out here, the greater the chance we'll end up passing out in this heat. Emmittsburg isn't far off, anyway."

Thus the three, with Francesco moving the boy's body away from the road, proceeded on their way. The Appalachians had virtually been smashed flat by the Nuclear War, so there was not much to look at during the remainder of their trip. All of that natural beauty and charm Johnson had learned so much about while a child in Site R had essentially evaporated, and had never returned.

The trio navigated through broken-down cars, of various makes, and shattered asphalt as they proceeded down the remains of Route 15. The raven and the boy were probably the most notable portions of the entire journey; everything else they'd seen before and would see a thousand times before they died. As the former unit leader once said in the off-time, "If I never see another burnt-out car again, I could die happy." The same might be said by any waster, regardless of where they came from or who they were.

Finally, about a half-hour later, the three Eagles came upon Emmittsburg. The town, surprisingly, had very few defenses; primarily, there was a sniper sitting atop a water-tower. Johnson remained wary, however; at any point, somebody might lug out a minigun and start tearing into the three Eagles. While he kept his rifle slung over his back, he made sure he was ready to pull his handgun at a moment's notice.

The denizens of the town eyed the three. They seemed fairly well-off, no doubt a result of the nearby farmland that remained surprisingly fertile in spite of the War. Yet they looked as if they would just as soon kick someone in the ass as they would shake them by the hand. They looked… upset. As if something was disturbing them. Johnson assumed it was just the presence of three complete strangers lugging weapons into town. Yet none of the people wielded weapons of their own. In a raider- and mutant-infested countryside, when towns like theirs were stamped out on a regular basis, why would nobody wield at least a pistol for basic self-defense?

A elderly-looking old man, wearing a cattleman's duster, strode out into the main street of the town, heading towards the three Eagles.

"Welcome to Emmitsburg, gentlemen." He said, his voice crisp, deep, and smooth, betraying the otherwise scraggly impression he might have left. "My name is Leonid. It's been quite a while since we've had visitors – or at least, visitors who haven't attempted to murder or enslave us – so forgive us if we seem somewhat mistrustful of y'all." He paused, and seemed to take inventory of the three visitors. "Enjoy your stay, and try to stay out of trouble. The hand of God'll smack you down if you don't."

The threat seemed genuine to Johnson. Preston even seemed to be somewhat angered by the threat, but held his tongue. Instead of reprimanding the old man, he asked,

"Where could we get some water?" to which the old man merely gestured towards a nearby tavern. "Thanks," Preston said, before departing to fill his canteen.

"What did you mean, 'the hand of God'?" Johnson asked.

"Just a metaphor, boy." The old man said. He studied the Eagles' faces, before continuing. "You probably won't have to worry about it." He shook hands with Johnson and Francesco, and then went about his own business as before. As he did so, the other residents who had stepped outside to watch the newcomers backed away, retreating into their own abode or business.

"Well, that wasn't exactly the reception I had been expecting." Francesco said, eyes flitting back and forth across the town.

"Seemed kinda lukewarm to me." Johnson said, adjusting his machinegun nervously. "What do you think he meant by the 'hand of God'?" Francesco furrowed his brow.

"Couldn't tell, to be honest." He sniffed. Preston emerged from the tavern with five milk jugs full of water; he carried two in either hand and a fifth anchored to his rifle.

"These guys have a near-untouched well not far off." He said, handing each of his compatriots one jug of water. "We're welcome to it if we want."

"Really? I find that hard to believe. The whole mountain chain go flattened during the War." Johnson said, suspicious. Oftentimes, wasters would try to pass off dirty water as clean, trying to fleece their victims out of more money before making haste to leave.

"No, this stuff is genuine." Preston assured. "They offered me a drink before I bought this water off of them. It was pure as a Vault Dweller, I swear."

Francesco and Johnson exchanged glances, but before long Johnson had found himself craving any kind of water. He took a long, drawn-out swig of his jug of water. As Preston had promised, it was definitely clean; Johnson, in ecstasy, let out a deep sigh of appreciation. He poured some water over his hair, and savored its cooling touch. It had been far too long since he had had a good washing, and getting at least a little bit of the grime and waste off of his skin was immensely invigorating.

Francesco followed. The entire trio was feeling far better than they had felt in years, not since they had been stationed in Site R. After the fall, they could find no safe water to drink without having to taint the taste with various chemicals; no water was radiation-lacking enough for them to bathe without at the least getting nauseas.

"Alright," Johnson proclaimed, "remember what we're here for. We're searching for any and all kinds of aid for the reorganization of our forces around Fort Independence."

"What about the water?" Preston asked.

"We'll abide by the town's rules on water usage. We pay for every ounce we draw."

"Got it, Johnson," Francesco acknowledged, "I'll see about setting up some sort of contract for the Eagles and Emmitsburg." He trotted off, asking around town for the town's leadership.

"I was under the impression that they had some sort of extremely potent defense system," Preston said, "They kept talking about something called the 'Hand of God'."

"Yeah," Johnson said, thinking aloud, "It has to be powerful. Else, this town would've ceased to exist a very long time ago."

"I'll set up camp." Preston said, holding out his hands for the tents and sleeping mats. Johnson nodded as he handed them to Preston.

"Don't stray too far. Try to stick at least within the town's immediate radius."

"Got it, cap."


	12. Der Flakturm

**Oy, hard to get back into writing when you've been away for a half-year haha. Here's hoping I can start uploading on a more regular basis - probably once a week, given how that was how long it took for me to get this chapter drafted up in an acceptable form.**

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><p><em>Der Flakturm<em>

Riley tossed a stone up the staircase behind him. It was a relatively heavy one, about the size of a pre-war basketball but many times heavier. It was part of his job while he was recuperating at Fort Independence to aid in the excavation of the lower levels, many of which had been buried in the fight several days prior. Some of the damage was certainly intentional, while some of it was likely an effect of the Great War two centuries before.

He cussed as he tossed another stone. Followed by another, and then by another. For larger stones, Riley had a pickaxe at his disposal. It was tough work, and very physically involved – the antithesis of what the doc had suggested.

"_Just take your time and rest up, Riley. You'll be out of here before you know it."_ He'd said. But not a day later he'd already been put to work moving rubble and debris out from the lower level hallways, alongside a skeleton crew of other Eagles who had been left behind while their units were deployed. It wasn't that Riley minded labor – on the contrary, he thrived on it – but it was the fact that he was deemed to unwell to continue fighting, especially when there were far more gravely wounded individuals in the infirmary upstairs.

Everything the Eagles had begun to do seemed opposite, to Riley, to the core fundamentals of guerrilla warfare. The whole point was to maximize damage to the enemy while minimizing that done by the enemy. For some years, Riley had fought through dust and grime, surprising patrol after patrol of unsuspecting Brotherhood knights. They'd taken virtually no casualties over the course of that time, the time since the Enclave had been smashed, but in not even a week almost the entirety of Riley's unit had been wiped from the face of the earth, and the remnants broken and battered. On the larger scale, the Eagles had lost close to a third their total manpower in a single battle. The numbers had fluctuated during the years since the battle at Adam's Air Force Base, but never were the casualties so bad where they couldn't immediately be replaced by some wasters.

On the converse, the target of the whole battle wasn't even a Brotherhood of Steel proper outpost. It was some splinter sect less than a fifth the size of the rest of the Brotherhood presence in the region. Granted, most of the Outcasts had died during the attack, but for what it was worth the whole affair contributed nothing at all to the overall war effort. Riley was certain that had they chosen to ignore them, the Outcasts might have not even made any kind of move against the Eagles. It wasn't as if there was, within the Outcasts, much in the way of kindness towards the proper Brotherhood of Steel.

He lobbed another stone. He wanted to talk to Lukas and see what the idea was with such a change in tact. Hopefully the Lieutenant hadn't gone completely insane, because if he had – well Riley wouldn't be sticking around for another folly like Fort Independence. With a grunt, Riley tossed a stone whose weight was half his own up the staircase, only to have it bounce midway up the stairwell and come tumbling back down. He growled and picked up his pickaxe, working away at the boulder.

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><p>Lukas carefully placed a marker on his map. The setup in Fort Independence was less than desirable, especially compared to the Nest where he'd spent the last few years planning and orchestrating the grander movements of the New Eagles. He had a physical map and makeshift markers, as opposed to the virtual ones the Nest had possessed for as long as Lukas could remember. Worse still, the physical map was from the pre-war days, and as a result was terribly outdated. He had to judge where each new city was by his mind's eye alone, which was easier said than done.<p>

Each marker was a simple block of wood with a number on it, and a symbol denoting its type. They weren't pre-war, but Lukas had made them in the same style and with most of the same marking types. It was a mixed blessing, as most of the units under his command were infantry only. There were a number of mechanized units who possessed trucks kitted out with a menagerie of weapons. More so now, since a good percentage of mechanized units had been wiped during the assault on the Fort, and their equipment distributed amongst the remaining units.

Allied units were painted in blue. The most he had now were the newly-formed Megaton army, who were preparing to storm across the Potomac and liberate Rockville, which would probably add yet more supporters to his cause. He scanned, marked out potential allies: Hagerstown and Emmittsburg to the west, Rivet City to the east, Vault City to the northwest, Paradise Falls further to the north, Lincoln-Underworld in the midst of the National Mall. In the distant future, Lukas foresaw potential alliances with more distant cities: Annapolis had supposedly survived, and it was known that Baltimore's suburbs were home to a confederation of linked trading towns. Pittsburgh could be an invaluable ally as well, being one of the few locations which still possessed the means to produce new weapons and equipment. There also persisted a number of cities in northern and eastern Virginia, all of which were out of reach for the moment but might, in the future, prove important.

He eyed the pentagon, and then the Jefferson monument. That monument would be the next major target for Lukas: reacquiring Project Purity would allow Lukas a significantly powerful bargaining chip, the same as how the Brotherhood was currently using it. They exploited the never-ceasing desire for water to maintain the allegiance of the wastelanders, to keep them flexible.

A knock came from the hallway.

"Door's unlocked; come on in." He said, without averting his eyes from the map. It was Riley McAllister.

"Sir, permission to inquire?" He asked.

"Riley, you and I have been comrades since the Sojourn. We can be informal here in my office." Lukas said, dissipating the air of formality Riley had tried to maintain. He looked at riley: he was shirtless, but covered by bandages. His hair was disheveled, and just as dirty as his limbs and face. He plainly hadn't bathed in years, whereas the Nest had functioning water systems, and thus Lukas was able to maintain his own hygiene.

"Alright." Riley said, shrugging. "I'm just curious, what's with the sudden change in tactics? Not even a month ago, we were guerrillas. We'd take our shot and leave as quickly as possible, we'd operate separately. Now we're fighting open-field battles, getting ourselves massacred. Is there any point to it?"

"Riley, I know you, and I know you've never been the commanding type, despite your capabilities in combat. We aren't just waging a war of continuation. That's what the Enclave had always done – the whole point of our very existence was to continue their war against the Communists." He pushed a book towards Riley, across the map and desk. Across the cover, in block letters, was written: _The Story of America: Vol. XXXI_. "This was written by a historian during the Sojourn, well after the first thirty volumes of this series had been published. Read it, it'll give you a pretty good background on our whole organization."

Riley took the book and flipped through the pages.

"This doesn't really answer my question."

"Doesn't it?" Lukas returned. "I'm not continuing the Enclave. They are dead, have been since the oil platform was obliterated. I'm trying to reform us into something new."

"And that," Riley concluded for Lukas, "means that we need to sacrifice droves of our own? Is this some kind of personal power-trip?"

"War isn't just field actions, Riley. It's a mixture of politics, espionage, and combat. So long as the Enclave lives on, we cannot hope to win this war. We need to kill it, once and for all, to proceed onwards to victory. This whole time we've been fighting, since Adam's, our fate has been inevitable. We will be defeated. If it takes months or decades, that's all up to chance." He paused, searching for the right words. "By forming something new, something inspired by, yet not tied to, the Enclave, we are getting the chance to start anew. Create a new image for ourselves, relieve ourselves of our predecessors' wrongs. But that's not enough to defeat the Brotherhood. We need to erode their support, while subsequently arraying the wasteland against them."

Riley understood as much. That was the whole point of the attack on Megaton – to erode the support of one of the largest settlements in the wasteland for the Brotherhood.

"That still doesn't give me an answer. Why are we getting ourselves killed?"

"Our allies need to take up the slack. We're not just destroying the Brotherhood. I aim for something greater, something more lasting. I want to instill the core values of the Enclave, and of Colonel Autumn in particular, into our allies. That's the whole point for gathering them: if they carry on with _our_ goals in mind, even if every last one of us was dead, it wouldn't matter. They would still govern under our banner, even if they didn't know it."

"I…" Riley paused. "I think I almost understand. You're just trying to unify the Wasteland." He grimaced at the thought. Was Lukas so disillusioned that he was prepared to sacrifice the Enclave for some naïve ideal?

Lukas smiled, recognizing his friend's displeasure.

"Almost. My aim is to create the America I grew up knowing, even if it isn't _America_. I'd prefer to be there for it, if at all possible. I may be utilitarian but I still don't like the thought of so much death anymore than you do. That's part of the reason I arranged for Harden Simms and the Megaton Army to liberate Rockville… while its guardian, that damnable paladin Cortez, is away. Hopefully we can kill that fucker instead of just delaying him." Lukas scowled, spitting the last sentence as though he were spitting venom. Cortez had been a major thorn in the Eagles' side. Every time he was present during an Eagle operation, the operation was a bust. He'd lived through a dozen assassination attempts and left no Eagle alive to relay the tale. And worst of all, his abuses of Enclave citizens in Rockville was appalling. Riley was silent, and nodded.

"Think I could be part of the attack on Rockville?" he asked. Lukas shook his head.

"Unfortunately not. The attack is proceeding at dusk tonight." Lukas said. Riley sighed.

"Alright. I'll just keep working on clearing out the basement." He turned to leave. Lukas watched him, and made sure the door was shut before continuing his examination of the map.

* * *

><p>Ashley Rodriguez had been drafted into doing the New Eagles' dirty work again. After her hand in the bomb attack on the Lone Wanderer, Lukas had not continued correspondence with her former compatriots, and figured after several weeks that she might be alone. Perhaps the Brotherhood finally won.<p>

Instead, a note came with Harden Simms, which instructed Ashley to set a proximity mine in the center of a road off in the godforsaken wasteland a ways north of Rockville. No explanation was given, and she was told to conceal the bomb as well as possible. Not long after she arrived, she was "ambushed" by three Eagle fighters, each clad in their cut-down combat armor and wielding R91 assault rifles. She almost screamed when one of them grabbed her shoulder. She wasn't expecting company, and hadn't heard her allies sneaking up on her. After getting some bread, water, and caps from the apparent leader of the group, she conversed with them, curious as to what was going on.

"An important individual's on the way. We're just here to kill him." One of them, the leader, clarified. "Really, I think this is just a diversion. From what I understand, the Megaton Army is on its way across the Potomac right now."

"Don't you guys think you're a little lightly armed for this… 'important individual'?" she asked them. She didn't relish the thought of being stuck out there waiting for some combat to end. Were her allies killed, she'd have to lay low, probably overnight.

"Like I said, ma'am, it's probably just a diversion." The leader again said, trying to dissuade Ashley's fears. One of the soldiers gestured with his missile launcher. The leader spotted movement on the road from the east, and ordered them all to take cover.

* * *

><p>Harden Simms moved forward with the First Platoon, leading from the front. He wasn't about to turn into an armchair general, he wanted to get first-hand combat experience with his fellows. Each soldier was clad in combat armor, and each wielded a brand-new R91 assault rifle, manufactured in the Pitt. Just over a ridge was Rockville, the target of the attack. Liberating Rockville would probably cut off routes west and north for the Brotherhood of Steel, and if what his allies said was true, the denizens of Rockville would lend a hand against the Brotherhood.<p>

Harden observed the walls of the city, and spotted their main defense: what looked like a massive laser turret built upon a derelict radio tower. Aside from that, the garrison looked light: only a few men patrolled the walls, a few more stood guard at the front gate. The walls were equipped with a number of smaller laser turrets. Two more platoons gathered behind Harden and the First Platoon. The plan of attack was simple. Feign an attack on the front gate with Second Platoon, and then climb over the west and south walls with First and Third Platoon. Fourth and Fifth Platoon were on standby, with snipers from the New Eagles providing overwatch for the attack.

Harden motioned to Second Platoon. The lieutenant leading the group looked terrified, and rightly so. They would likely be the main target for the Brotherhood's turret. They'd also be the most exposed.

"Move up and use cover," Harden commanded in a hushed tone, "don't kill yourselves."

The lieutenant nodded, before checking to make sure his rifle was loaded. Harden checked his own rifle. His rifle was the Type 93 which had previously been owned by his father.

"First and Third Platoon, get ready. The second gunfire starts, we're going to make our way through those three canyons," he gestured southward, towards a number of passable areas etched from the ridge, "and scale or destroy the walls. Our first goal is to disable that turret of theirs, and in the process we ought to have eliminated the enemy's fighting capabilities."

He waited for a signal. In the intervening time, he conversed with a number of the other militia.

"Sir," one of them asked, "What happened to luring the enemy out?"

It was a valid question. Previously, Harden had planned on using their emplacements against the Brotherhood by feigning an attack, but the chances of actually being able to draw the Brotherhood out seemed remarkably low.

"Plans change," he responded, "I find it difficult to believe the Brotherhood would be stupid enough to just leave their posts."

To the north, Harden saw a flare, almost unnoticeable against the dusk sky.

"Go!" he shouted. Second Platoon made their way as quickly as possible to the north, and looped back once they made it to the road. Using broken-down cars for cover, they moved up, taking shots at the Brotherhood's garrison.

* * *

><p>Ashley kept her hands pressed against her ears, and her eyes shut, for the duration of the fighting. The whole affair terrified the life out of her, and it was plain from the get-go that her allies were losing. She hid behind a boulder, away from the fight.<p>

The fight had, at first, gone as planned. Ashley saw as much; she waited alongside the Eagles when the three pre-War trucks came rolling along from the east, unaware of the trap that had been set for them. Ashley had set the mine in a crack of the pavement, hiding it from view – the first truck detonated nicely, and the initial detonation of the mine was quickly followed by a second, harsher explosion. The nuclear power supply had gone critical. The two Brotherhood men who had survived the first explosion – those who were in the bed of the truck – were disabled due to the EMP effect of the nuclear explosion. The Eagles waited until the rest of the Brotherhood got out to investigate.

* * *

><p>Cortez had barely stepped out of his truck when the first bullet struck him, leaving a welt on the ceramic chestplate of his armor just above where his heart was. A cacophony of gunfire followed afterwards, and the other truck Cortez had brought along went up in flames as a missile slammed into it.<p>

"Kill them!" he shouted, his voice barely audible due to the muffling effect the power armor's helmet had on him. "They've only got projectile weapons! Go after them!"

Nobody heard him. So the Paladin took it upon himself to unholster his Desert Eagle, and charge directly towards where the gunfire was coming from.

* * *

><p>Seeing him, running as fast as he was in his power armor, Ashley immediately slipped away, even as the Eagles began to panic. Their weapons truly were useless against power armor, for the most part, and the Eagles proved no match for the Brotherhood once the latter's confusion had worn off.<p>

Ashley was uncertain about whether she had been seen or not, and it really didn't matter to her; she picked her way back to the Potomac regardless. She could hear the screams of the Eagles who had helped with the ambush.

* * *

><p>Cortez saw the woman get away, but didn't bother going after her.<p>

"Probably just some waster," he said as one of the Knights suggested pursuing her. Either way, she was obviously not a fighter. She had run without even firing a shot. What's the point of going after people who aren't actually threats? "Check and see if the knights in the first truck survived. That looked like an awful blast. Send up a flare; let the garrison know we'll be a few more hours."

As the Second Platoon got bogged down, Harden lead the First and Third Platoon through the rifts and towards the walls. The First Platoon prepared to scale the west wall, while the Third took the south wall. Few had seen them coming. It was just as Harden's soldiers begin to clamber over the walls that the turret first activated.

* * *

><p>Harden could hear it prior to the first volley, although he couldn't discern what it was making the noise. It produced a sound akin to a gatling gun spinning up, but at a much deeper pitch. Without any adieu, the turret began to spit missiles and bullets towards the Second Platoon in volleys. Explosions illuminated the darkening horizon, occasionally followed by the harsher explosions of derelict car generators going critical.<p>

Over the wall, Harden tried to bring to mind the map of Rockville he had studied several days prior. It had been drawn up by a number of scouts, most of whom were ex-Enclave, and he was now regretting not bringing it: the city's buildings provided a maze which he and his two platoons would need to pick through. Worst of all, Harden had forgotten his radio, and there was therefore no room for error.

"Make your way towards the hall! See if the locals might be willing to help!" He cried, before shifting through an alleyway with a fireteam of four others. Almost all of the Brotherhood knights were up on the walls. There might have been more inside some of the buildings, but the Megaton militia needed to prioritize. The town hall, they knew, was the Brotherhood's headquarters for the region, and would likely have some kind of control console for the turret above which was currently raining death upon the Second Platoon.

Most of the journey, as both platoons split into their respective squads and fireteams, was unconfrontational. As expected, the population of Rockville was sternly against the Brotherhood, and was compliant in directing Harden and his men towards the town hall. They even directed them towards the town's generator, if they wanted a faster way to shut down the town's defenses. Harden was dead-set on capturing the town hall, however – the Brotherhood would be able to react to their as-yet undiscovered foes within the town if their defenses suddenly ceased their work.

After some time, by Harden's reckoning around fifteen minutes, he and his compatriots had made their way to the town hall, where they immediately set down a defensive perimeter using the Brotherhood's preexisting defensive emplacements. The Second Platoon had been reinforced by the Fourth Platoon, but Harden knew they had to be wavering by that point. As far as Harden could see, only two Brotherhood knights had been incapacitated up to that point, and one of the wall's smaller turrets had exploded.

* * *

><p>Cortez was astounded by the lack of response from the garrison. His one truck was not enough to carry all of the Brotherhood knights who had accompanied him, let alone all of the bodies and equipment he needed to recover. It was incredibly sloppy of the garrison, and when he arrived back – whenever that was – he would hand out a lot of reprimands and summary imprisonments. Thereafter he would need to send for replacement trucks, replacement equipment, replacement soldiers…<p>

The knights had taken to conversing amongst themselves, though Cortez wanted no part in their discussions. He glanced at his watch, which he had sewn to his left glove, under the palm of his hand. It was getting later by the minute, and soon it would be completely dark, the perfect time for raiders and other scum to try their luck at tackling Cortez' caravan.

There were two knights and ten turrets within the town hall. The former had surrendered the moment they were caught unawares – they wore no armor and wielded no weapons. The latter, by contrast, was more firm in conviction, and three in the First Platoon were incapacitated by then during the sweeping operation.

"Any word on a control panel for the turret out there?" Harden asked as his men darted from room to room. There was a resounding "no" from everyone, and Harden finally relented to ask the Brotherhood's knights about the issue after some minutes.

Those two were hogtied, their hands and feet bound together with zipties the militia had found in the basement of the building. They watched with fear as the town hall was torn apart by the militia. Much of the building's equipment and system were forcefully removed, only important items such as Brotherhood's deployment records and equipment transfer records were retained for future usage.

"I'm in a bit of a bind here, friends," Harden began, crouching down to face-level with the two bound knights. "My comrades out there are being slaughtered by that death machine up on the radio tower, and I need a way to shut it down. Any suggestions?"

"Yeah," one of them spat, a relatively large and fit man who under normal circumstances might have frightened Harden. "Go fuck yourselves." Harden pursed his lips.

"That's out of the picture, pal." He said, rising and bringing his rifle to bear slugging the smartass with the stock of the weapon. Blood and a number of teeth came forth as the blow hit home on the man's teeth.

"Fuck you. I'm not saying anything." The man reiterated.

"Well what about your pal here?" Harden asked the other one, a scrawny-looking man who was probably a recent recruit right out of the wastes.

"Uh, y-yeah!" he said, skittish. "Third floor, take the first left and it's the third door on the right! Now could you let me go?" The larger man glared knives at his smaller companion.

"Maybe later," Harden said, before calling to the militia who immediately began the hike up to the third floor. Harden followed not long after, to ensure the area was clear before he went to check. As was promised, there in the specified room was a large console comprised of a number of terminals, all of which were linked into a larger interface that dominated the far wall, away from the door.

Harden sat at the nearest terminal, whose user had conveniently left it logged onto the system, likely having left in a hurry to meet the Second Platoon on the walls. Harden searched through each of the options, trying to find a way to shut down the turret. One option allowed Harden to change the targeting parameters, which was as good as anything else – he reset the targeting parameters so as to wipe clean the preexisting set that had been uploaded. Almost immediately, the sound of missiles ceased. On further examination, Harden uncovered a number of files which might be advantageous in future scraps with the Brotherhood: namely, research findings on various weapons and armor, and detailed reports on the effectiveness of different weapons against powered armor.

"Lieutenant Marcus," Harden called, whereupon the leader of the Third Platoon made his appearance.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, nervous. Harden was unsure what he was nervous about; he was probably one of the more capable members of the militia – both in terms of his logical abilities and physical prowess, being by far one of the more well-built men in Megaton.

"There ought to be a door from the fourth floor leading onto the wall – take your platoon out there, and finish the battle." Harden directed, to which Marcus grimaced.

"Uh, yes, sir." He said, before gesturing for his soldiers to follow. "Let's go – try and keep in cover if you can!"

* * *

><p>The Harden resolved to stay in Rockville for the next few days with his part of the army. Until he could get the people of Rockville fitted for combat and ready to defend themselves, he wasn't about to take a chance and allow the Brotherhood to descend on them like vultures immediately after he'd rescued them. He was certain that would be what would happen, as well – probably a third the reported garrison had been absent at the time of his attack. If the Brotherhood were swift enough and in great enough quantity, they would be able to retake Rockville regardless of whether or not Megaton was in the area.<p>

The immediate aftermath of the reclamation was that Harden actually found himself defending his enemies – or at least those who had survived – from the same people he had liberated. He didn't want the precedent set that summary execution was an acceptable course of action, under any circumstances. How much of a hypocrite would he be if he did the very thing that justified his hostility? Megaton had the moral high ground, and Harden wasn't one to squander it. As such, he organized a trial, at which the people of Rockville would decide the fates of the Brotherhood garrison. His proceedings were largely based on the pre-war United States, of which he had been taught by the Lone Wanderer.

Sitting atop a bench in the city's courtroom, he brought the court to order.

"Much as I would love a fair trial for the remaining Brotherhood garrison troops, I want to make this as quick as possible. I have plenty of reasons to loathe these men, for what their comrades did to my own city – causing massive suffering through the deaths of many of our loves ones, and to a lesser extent the large amount of property damage that occurred during the act."

The few Brotherhood garrison troops seemed taken aback.

"What on God's green earth are you talking about?" One of them shouted. "Nobody from this city ever went after Megaton!"

"We have two thousand witnesses who would be more than ready to testify against you." Harden said, vaguely annoyed by the troop's lack of reverence, as well as the fact that he was flat-out lying. "But this isn't about me or my quarrels with you, it's that of the people you were garrisoned with." Harden said, gesturing to the two-hundred Rockville who had joined Harden and his troops in the prosecution of the garrison. "Left to their own devices, I'd imagine they'd just lynch you all. My troops here are the only thing standing between you and your death."

The citizens of Rockville seemed perturbed by the fact that they were being just as much kept away from the remaining garrison as they were being guarded from the garrison in the off chance those few remaining troops managed to get loose. For all of the trespasses committed against them, the fact that they weren't summarily punished was frustrating, and as a result the entire room was filled with a silent tension. Everybody could feel the murder the citizens of Rockville were emanating.

"Let's read off the charges." Harden said. He commenced on a journey through close to seven hundred charges, each one not necessarily as severe as those prior or after it. They weren't listed in order of severity, either, and Harden left off on a count of expropriation of fiscal assets.

Harden wasn't dressed for the role he now occupied.

"Typically I'd advocate for individual sentencing, but in this particular case it ought to be cumulative. There's practically no doubt in anyone's mind – either from the evidence we found during the final sweeps last night, or from first-hand accounts – that the crimes committed here were of the highest echelon in terms of vulgarity. If it weren't for the fact that my daddy was a lawman, I probably wouldn't even be the one up here. The jury should convene now and rule a verdict."

Harden was exhausted. He'd been up for two days straight during both the positioning for the attack, and the following actions with regards to cleaning up. It reminded Harden of some bad memories of the Enclave years ago, when they first started rustling through the wasteland. To think he was sentencing his former allies.

After some time, the verdict came back. Harden read it.

"As expected," he said, "Guilty. The punishment for… well, all the crimes combined is execution by firing squad. Sentence will be carried out within the hour. May God have mercy on all of your souls." Harden could practically smell the fear and the vengefulness. It was as though he was standing between a group of super-mutants, a deathclaw, and a couple drugged-up wastelanders.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, so not as good as I would like. I know the dialogue between Riley and Lukas is kind of awkward, so if you had trouble following: basically, Lukas is trying to enact a greater plan for the Eagles, which requires changes in tactics, while Riley is concerned about the wisdom in actually changing those tactics.<strong>


End file.
